


love to kill, lungs to fill

by venomedveins



Series: of magic & monsters [9]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Magic, Mpreg, Multi, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Smut, Violence, mentions of previous abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 07:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5907928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of the Wolf Festival, and both Agron and Nasir finding out who they really are and what they have created.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love to kill, lungs to fill

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so fucking late with this and I'm so fucking sorry ;~; I know you have all been patient and wonderful and think you so much! I am hoping to get back on a regular schedule now that I've settled into grad school. 
> 
> As always, a billion and one thanks to habibinasir, whom without this would all be fucking shit. She is amazing!

A bead of sweat makes its way slowly between the sharp cut of Nasir's shoulder blades, sliding over trembling muscles and goosebumps. It gets lost in the small of his back, tattoo slick and gleaming as Nasir arches again. The heat from the tent is stifling, a haze that seems to dim the candles until shadows play across the walls, air thick with humidity, and the wavy scent of pheromones and skin. Nasir’s knuckles are turning white from where he's gripping the thick logs of the headboard, head tossed back and staring blindly up at the roof. It’s the type of pleasure that can drive someone to madness, trembling and pounding through his veins when he can’t remember anything except that he never wants to leave this place – this oasis. 

Below him, Agron holds Nasir's thighs open, denting the skin with his grip as he guides him back and forth - rocking Nasir onto his tongue. Down here, the heat and scent of him is completely encompassing, and Agron knows he could drown in this and never be satisfied. It’s intimate, a space that he knows Nasir has never allowed anyone to be before. No, this is Agron’s – his for the taking and cherishing. Agron listens to the chorus of moans and cries above him, rubbing his stubble roughly along Nasir's perineum, delighted when Nasir rides his face harder. 

“ _Oh Agron,_ ” Nasir groans, hand slipping down from the wood to entangle his fingers in Agron’s hair, tugging roughly. “Don’t stop. Fuck, please don’t stop.” 

Agron answers with a growl, dragging his teeth against the tender skin and nipping at Nasir’s hole. He knows that Nasir is close, can tell from the way he’s thrashing, thighs trying to tighten down if it weren’t for Agron’s sure grip. Slipping his tongue into Nasir again, he flutters it back and forth, sucking a kiss onto it a moment later just to hear the high pitched whine in Nasir’s throat. He knows it’s tortured heaven, Nasir riding against him, weight heavier as his stomach heaves, body trembling as he leaks against his navel. They’ve been at it for what feels like hours, ever since Agron had carried Nasir across the threshold and dropped him onto the bed with a predatory grin. 

It is their night to celebrate though, crowns discarded with the rest of their clothes in a pile on the floor, forgotten and unneeded. Tomorrow, formalities and plans will need to begin. More requirements and laws, but tonight, stripped bare and pressed so tightly together, nothing else matters. Agron’s only thought is on the soft skin of Nasir’s thighs pressed against his jaw, the way he ruts in short little thrusts down on him, driven crazy with it all. 

Nasir feels raw, opened wet and sloppy between his thighs, and he knows they’re not anywhere close to being done. He’s already come twice, biting into his lip to try to smother it. They didn’t latch the tent, and every time the wind blows, Nasir can just make out the armor of the guards standing just outside. Agron had made a point of commanding them to make sure no one disturbed them tonight, threatening rage and punishment if anyone entered the tent outside of the most extreme emergency. Nasir knows he would hold true to his threat too, too engulfed in one another to even consider stopping now.

It can’t last, not with the way they’re moving against one another, drunk on sensation and lust. It’s too much and not enough, a spastic fever of want and need and now. Agron doesn’t relent even when Nasir cries out, yanking fistfuls of his hair, instead he continues laving his tongue back and forth. It only takes a few more moments, a few bites and snarls against flesh, for Nasir to suddenly curl forward, thighs trembling. Pressing his lips to the skin, Agron chases the sensation back inside of Nasir, licking along his slick walls even as they tighten. The harshness of Nasir’s grip on his hair suddenly slackens, body above him going limp. 

“Shit,” Nasir whines when Agron slips out from under him, flipping back onto his knees. He grips Nasir’s waist tightly, drags him back until Nasir’s palms dig into the furs, positioned on all fours.

“You have no idea how good you look like this. How much I want to just rut into you,” Agron growls, fangs gnashing sharply around the words. He’s trying to keep it under control, but the magic is too new, too fresh, and Nasir is the only one to bring it out like this. 

“I am already thick with your child,” Nasir pants, tossing his hair out of his face to look at Agron over his shoulder, “Do you intend to breed me again?”

“If I had my way,” Agron smirks slowly, eyes shimmering in the failing light, “I would always have you full of my seed, soaked in it so that no one would ever question whose mate you are.” 

Spitting into his palm, Agron strokes his cock and watches the dim light shatter along Nasir’s back. The shadows cling to the still sharp lines of him, the muscles softened under the weight of their child but Nasir is still beautiful like this – gleaming on his knees with his back arched and dark eyes staring at Agron from over his shoulder. Agron can’t resist, presses the tip of his cock to Nasir’s hole and leans over, connects their mouths as he bottoms out in one long push. 

He stays close, hips pulling back minutely to grind forward, hands sliding down Nasir’s sides. Agron can hear him breathing, panting and cursing, slivers of gold and crimson zigzagging down his back and arms. There are the customary vines bursting from the earth, dragging and growing higher and higher towards the tent, and Agron swears that he could stay here in this moment forever and never grow tired. There is something so perfect about the way Nasir’s body trembles, his wet, bruised mouth left open around cries. 

“Do you feel that? How perfect I fit inside of you?” Agron laps at Nasir’s earlobe, nipping at it with teeth a little too sharp to be human. “No one has ever been like this for you. No one knows the things that turn your magic vicious, skin golden. Do they? This is all for me.”

“It’s always this way,” Nasir gasps, eyes squeezed shut. Inside of him, a dull ache begins to form. It’s too close to pain to be from the pleasure, suddenly feeling exhausted even as he pushes back at Agron for more. “Do you think anyone else could ever compare? I was crafted in the palms of the gods for you.”

“Made for each other.”

Agron slams his hips forward at that, leaning back and gripping Nasir’s hips between his large hands. He’s careful, as always, that his claws don’t tear into the skin though it’s hard now with the shift having come so suddenly. It’s an ache inside of him, and Agron lets some of his control slip as a growl bursts through – more animal than man. Nasir answers with his own cry though, hiss turning half snake as he presses back, a shimmer of gold scales appearing over his shoulders. 

They move in tandem, slamming against each other as if waves towards the shore. Barreling together and seeming to slide from being two into one. Agron drags deliciously against Nasir, heightens the pleasure and in reaction, Nasir tightens down, spreads his legs wider until his stomach barely hovers above the bed. 

“ _Nasir_ ” Agron murmurs inside of Nasir’s mind, caresses across his thoughts with warm breath and warmer fingers. “ _Let go for me, my love. Give in._ ”

Nasir succumbs instantly, cock spurting hot and thick against his stomach as he tightens down onto Agron’s still bruising thrusts. He can barely breathe as Agron’s arms encase him, body shoving roughly as the sound of skin against skin fills the tent. Above them, the roof sways with the weight of the vines, floral and citrus mingling with the already thick scent of sweat and flesh, a thousand blossoms curling open like a canopy of stars above them. 

Agron’s growl shakes the very ground it seems, petals scattering around them as he finds his own completion. He stays close, quick rutting grinds that nearly push Nasir flat if it weren’t for Agron’s sure arm wrapped around his chest. It seems to go forever, Agron working his way through it, seed seeming to fill Nasir and down his thighs. As he slows, Agron guides Nasir back and up onto his knees, caresses his fingertips down the soft, stretching skin of Nasir’s chest, over his slick stomach, chasing the taste off his fingertips. They stay like that, suspended above the bed and panting together, blind except for when they find the energy to look at one another. 

Tracing his hand down Agron’s jaw, Nasir nuzzles against him, drags his nose along the shape of Agron’s. This close, they’re sharing the same breath, gasping until it’s too much and then end of falling into kissing, chasing taste and finding the familiar grooves and arches. Agron’s teeth are sharp as they drag slowly over Nasir’s bottom lip, just enough to bruise them even more and in reply, Nasir drags his nails through the soft hair on the back of Agron’s head. 

Very carefully, Agron slips from within Nasir and turns him, leads him down. He cushions Nasir’s head back against the pillows, makes sure he is situated before slipping off the side of the bed to grab a clean rag. It’s a marvel that he can stand right now, legs shaking and breath still ragged, but with Nasir’s state – his comfort is Agron’s only concern. Staring down at Nasir, sprawled on his back with sweat slick hair and legs delicately spread, Agron doesn’t even have a thought to spare. All he can focus on is the smear of white on the dark shadow of the insides of Nasir’s thighs, the bruises on his neck, the dark eyes and slowly grinning mouth. 

“You look half-starved,” Nasir murmurs, licking his lips, “as if this is first time you have had me. Has hunger for me not faded?”

“Taste of you lingers across tongue,” Agron crawls slowly back up the bed, dragging wet cloth along the seam between Nasir’s thigh and hip, “and yet I still crave you. Still wish to feel you succumb to me.”

“It is how I feel all the time now,” Nasir touches his fingertips to his mouth, gaze unwavering, “I crave you nearly every moment, of every day. It is a suffocating, encompassing, relentless desire. Your body calls to mine, wills it to beg for you, and I am never sated.”

Agron raises an eyebrow slowly, smirk morphing his face. “Being heavy with my child makes you crave being filled with my seed even more?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Nasir admits, fingers flexing beside him, heels digging into the furs. He knows he should not tempt fate like this. Melitta will be furious if she finds out. She had warned him to be careful, to not fuck like this, but Nasir needs it. Needs Agron holding him down, being rough, until Nasir can’t breathe and only Agron can bring him back. “A glance from you can cause a fever that never leaves unless we are joined. It does not matter who surrounds us or what we are doing. I need you constantly.”

“Tell me, Nasir,” Agron growls deeply, “would you have me keep you here then? Relieve you of this fever by keeping my cock within you until the world melts away and we are nothing more than one being – molded by the pleasure and heat of our coupling?”

“Your command,” Nasir drags his legs open, knees caressing Agron’s ribs, “was to be left alone unless gravest of emergencies. Anyone would be a fool to disobey a king’s direct order – even myself.”

“Truly spoken,” Agron smirks, sucking a wet kiss to Nasir’s chest, just to hear him hiss, nipple leaking lightly against his tongue. It had been a new development, something that had slowly driven Agron to madness but kneading the skin between teeth and tongue to produce more.

“Give me but moment to catch breath,” Agron hisses, lapping up the trail of thin, white liquid before turning his gaze upwards, mouth pulled back into a wicked grin. “And I shall have you again and again until your thighs forget what it feels like not to have me within them and you can only speak my name.”

“Is this your royal command?” Nasir teases breathlessly, hands flexing beside his stained cheeks. “I could not disobey a king, especially one so focused on pleasing his consort.”

“Yes, it is. My command for now, tonight, and the rest of our remaining days – to always give you pleasure,” Agron growls against Nasir’s mouth, hips grinding down against Nasir’s thigh. 

He’s hard again, eyes shimmering liquid green. Nasir gasps against his mouth, sliding his knees higher to grip Agron’s ribs. He half wishes he possessed the ability to say no, to turn away and be the responsible man that Melitta told him to be, but nothing comes close to how much he wants Agron all the time. It’s the sweetest poison, filling him up with none of the bad repercussions, like being drunk on ambrosia and swimming in the sky. 

“Majesty,” Nasir’s moan is lost as Agron thrusts back inside of him, staying on his forearms to kiss the sounds out of Nasir’s mouth.

Agron growls lowly, keeping Nasir’s legs up and their stomachs pressed together tightly. It curves him down because of the new shape of his body, Agron able to not press but surround Nasir, encompass him in heat. This close, they aren’t even kiss really, just breathing into each other’s mouths – intimate and close.

Outside, Adherbal and Tryphon share a look as a moan carries out of the tent and into the night air. They’ve been standing still, listening for some time now as the royals fuck, unable to abandon their post but also unable to help from overhearing. Leaves now brush against them, vines covering the mismatched pattern of hides and cloth that create the tent – a jungle created by their pleasure. Every few moments, the breeze will catch the flap of the tent, sending the golden hues from within out onto the slick grass and the sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh. 

“It seems King Agron lives up to his reputation,” Adherbal smirks, ducking his head as a particularly loud cry comes from inside, Nasir’s voice raising an octave. 

“Aye,” Tryphon glances back just briefly, just enough to see a glimpse of Agron’s slick back, hips pistoning forward as Nasir’s palms slides along the bed, back arched as he digs his knees down. He turns away then, blushing as Agron wraps his hand in Nasir’s hair and tugs. “You would think task would be difficult considering the size of King Nasir.”

“He is very heavy with child,” Adherbal agrees, shifting his hold on his staff to look at his friend, “yet considering display, it is not surprising he has fallen such. Must be nice, to have constant thighs to find yourself between. Do you suppose travel to castle will find others willing to lay upon back?”

“For you? Not likely,” Tryphon scoffs, nudging his friend companionably. "Castus would see us well prepared at all times. You know he wishes to fall back into favor." 

"Fall back into Nasir's good favor," Adherbal mutters, rolling his eyes. Castus may be his leader due to Heracleo's death - but there is barely any loyalty there. 

"It was not Nasir that threatened to rip the throat from his neck," Tryphon comments pointedly, raising an eyebrow. 

“Did the king hear of what Castus’ heart was set on while he was away?” Adherbal raises an eyebrow, scoffing. It wasn’t as if Castus kept thoughts to himself, shouting to Heracleo in the quiet of their shared tent. It doesn’t surprise the pirate though; men are so often enslaved to their passions. It is why it is so dangerous to fall in love with the blue of the ocean, as still water often turns to crashing waves when provoked. 

“His heart? More he was ruled by his cock,” Tryphon sneers, “an object that I’m sure Agron would love to remove if he was given opportunity. I’ve heard that Agron plans to cut his balls off and serve them to Nasir on a golden plate for their anniversary.”

Adherbal is about to reply when a shadow falls across the grass, someone approaching quickly and adorned in a thick robe of silver and crimson. It only takes a moment for the Pontas guards to recognize Solonius – wrinkled mouth twisted by some dark thought. The guards hands shift on their spears, moving together when the elder gets close – there may be no loyalty to Castus, but the men are not fools. If they wish to keep their necks, it is best to stay in King Agron’s good graces. 

“I am here to hold council with King Agron. See that there is wine.” Solonius moves to shove past the large men, but Adherbal holds out his hand, stopping him efficiently. 

“Apologies, good Solonius, but our command comes from the King himself," Tryphon cuts quickly, shaking his head, "King Agron commanded that he not be disturbed until morning light unless gravest emergency. King Nasir and him have retired for the evening."

"I come bearing news," Solonius waves his heavily jeweled hand, mouth tugging down into a scowl, “which I am sure he will be eager to hear.” 

"Hour is very early," Adherbal sighs, fingers gently adjusting on his spear, "and the royals have not yet found slumber. I do not think it wise for you or us to disturb them."

"What do you-" Solonius is cut off as another cry echoes from within the tent, door fluttering the breeze as more vines shoot out in an intricate archway over the opening. It illuminates the royals intertwined, Agron on his knees with Nasir in his lap, long hair wild as it moves with Nasir’s quick bounces. Then the wind vanishes and the sight is lost behind criss-crossing leaves. 

“As you can see,” Tryphon barely contains his smirk, trying to school his expression down but it’s hard when Agron’s voice breaks through the leather and Solonius’ face flushes, “they are otherwise distracted. I would return in full morning light.”

Solonius’ eyes narrow, squaring his shoulders back. It’s a failing attempt at looking less embarrassed and more collected, and the guards share a quick glance – gazes cool at best. Humor falls away in the gravity of the situation. What threat does an old man hold against the two kings? Both pirates were there earlier, watched Agron – known as the Beast of all of Alptra – offer his slaughter to his mate. And tiny, jeweled Nasir had ripped into that heart, covered himself and their unborn child in blood with a grin. 

When the Pontas had first arrived, it appeared that this place was obtuse, a mad, vicious king with animals for subjects and an enslaved diamond as his pet. Nasir was pretty, an enchanter with his body and the way the drums seemed to form around him, propel him into ecstasy. Now though, with the wolves released and the throne reclaimed – it is clear that carnage fuels these men. 

Waiting until Solonius is a mere shadow in the distance, Adherbal turns to peak through the crack in the tent. Highlighted by the single lantern over their bed, Agron and Nasir now sit before one another, arms bent as they press their palms tightly to one another’s, lips barely moving around words. Around them, tiny white flowers slowly open, glowing pale and silver in the dim light and shedding a few petals to cling to the dark swirl of Nasir’s hair. Agron’s eyes are still glowing, supernaturally green and bright, but they do not flicker as they did before – instead fastened onto his husband. Nasir wills tiny lights around them, enchanting as they continue to stare – an intimate and quiet moment when it seems that they wish to only stay and melt together.

Adherbal turns away quickly, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. He does not understand these men, these monsters that sing sweetly to one another and create life with joy and beauty. Yet, the moment one is threatened, the world is in peril. It makes no sense, this type of passion – this hypnotic dance that Agron and Nasir have entered. It’s madness.

\- - -

A low, miserable wail groans through the snowy peaks of the Hyalus Mountains, sound ricocheting throughout the vast canyon below. Inside the temple, the moans shatter amongst the crystal and granite walls, an omen of the storm raging outside the temple. It scatters drifts of white flakes against the tightly sealed doors - a hidden entrance only seen by the trained eye. It is a haven, but one forged by hard edges and strict rules.

It has always been this way for the seers housed within the large fortress' walls, hidden in ice and snow, away from the world in which they see all. It is a very hazardous journey to visit this place, rote with peril and danger as the traveler would be forced to battle against the elements, huge snow creatures, and the steep climb of the mountain itself to reach these hallowed walls. 

In the large center hall, away from the amber glow of fires and soft spoken comradery, a single figure lays sprawled on the glass alter. Her black curls halo around her, dark skin a tease through the thin, pale fabric that surrounds her smaller frame. A ribbon of rainbow thread is woven along her crown - a sign of her rank within the group, high counselor to the Master’s partner.

Behind her fluttering eyelids, images of the future play like light through a kaleidoscope. They overlap, colors fanning out into one another, flashes of people laughing, dancing, murders, death, war. It bleeds together over and over until the smears turn into solid lines, the picture fading slowly into clarity.

A man stands on the edge of what appears to be a wide, stone balcony – a steep and gothic looking castle looming around him. The wind whips his long black hair around, catching the strands on his tear streaked cheeks, eyes closed and damp. He’s wearing a stained and dirty white tunic, the crystal beads on the shoulders snagged and hanging. It’s not the cloth that stands out, but the long stain of blood leading from his neck down onto his chest, staining the front of him in thick crimson. 

Behind him, through the glass doors leading into the large, ornate bedroom, a shadow moves through the darkness. It seems to morph from one section of the room to the other, a looming mass of blackness against the dark wood and ornate metals of the room. It’s obtuse, an omen that stands out from everything. There is no indicator of who the shadow is, just the gleaming red eyes give it away – a monster, _creaturae noctis_ , vampire. 

The man on the balcony’s voice carries through the storm, whispering prayers in a tongue that Ariadne does not recognize. It’s sharp and blunt with hisses interwoven through the words. He’s clutching something to his chest, a gold chain whipping back and forth in the breeze before he suddenly opens his eyes, unseeing as they stare forward. 

“Brother, please. Think of what you have done.” 

The man slowly uncurls his fingers to reveal a tiny gold wolf charm coated in blood, the muzzle having been gripped so tightly that it has left indents around the gold ring on his finger. Ariadne can see that the wound on his neck is still oozing, two pinpricks that gush crimson. It’s clear that the rupture is from a bite, the skin around the wound tinged violet from the vampiric poison. 

“My baby.”

Ariadne watches as a silent witness, unable able to participate, as the shadow suddenly appears behind the man, long, black fingers curling around his shoulders as it roughly shoves him towards the railing. The man doesn’t fight it, a look of horror ghosting over his face as if he already knows what is to come. Behind him, the shadow easily lifts the man up onto the carved stone, getting ready to fling him off when the man’s eyes snap to Ariadne, seeming to stare directly at her from the mist – screaming out a single word. 

“Ashur!”

Ariadne propels herself from the vision with a cry of her own, sitting up with a hand to her chest. Her heart is slamming against her ribs, pulse erratic as the images slowly fade behind her eyes. Clammy sweat sticks the silver fabric of her tunic against her dark skin, too hot even in the silent and freezing room. She can still see the man’s eyes, the blood coating his chest, the way his own tunic had hugged the curve of his stomach. The shadow is lost in the vision still causes shivers to rack through Ariadne’s body, her arms covered in goosebumps. 

“What are you doing here? Ariadne, what have you seen?”

A lone figure quickly makes its way into the room, white fabric billowing behind him. Lido’s bare feet lightly tap the floor as he comes closer, wrists and upper arms covered in gold bangles sounding like tiny bells. A warm palm presses to the center of Ariadne’s back as he supports her, easing her up until she can sit on her own. 

“I saw-“ She can barely draw a full breath into her lungs, “I saw a man, but it wasn’t a man. It couldn’t have been. And there was a shadow and he was crying.”

“What do you mean it couldn’t have been a man?” Lido gently brushes a hand through her short curls.

“He was pregnant,” Ariadne slowly looks up at her mentor, “Very pregnant.”

Lido sinks down slowly to sit on his heels, hands leaving Ariadne’s damp skin to grasp her hands instead. There is a wildness in his eyes, a kind of terror that she has never seen before. He seems to not realize he’s affecting the air around them, a sharp breeze whipping through the room.

“This man, what did he look like?”

“He was small, short with long dark hair with white flowers in it,” Ariadne’s eyes track over Lido’s face; his own dark hair tied back in a perfect braid, the broadness of his nose, the hidden tattoo on his spine that she has barely glanced in passing. Lido is married to the Master Seer, a large and grayed man named Albinius who only calls for Lido when he needs his cock taken care of. Ariadne is not so young as to not know what Lido’s role is in this kingdom, barely four years separate them. 

“In a way, he kind of looked like you.” Ariadne hesitates to say, glancing away. “Same nose.”

“Like me?” Lido’s brows furrow more, wrinkling his smooth face.

“He was holding a wolf charm in his hand, covered in blood. A shadow came out of the castle, a vampire from his eyes, and he lifted the man up and went to throw him from the balcony,” Ariadne continues, brow furrowing in confusion, “He was begging for his…for his brother not to hurt the baby? I could hear growling too, like wolves in the snow.”

“Did he say what the brother’s name was?” Lido’s voice is breathless, a mere gasp. The color has drained from his face, leaving him pale with huge dark eyes.

“He called out for Ashur,” Ariadne gently lays her hand against Lido’s cheek, lifting his gaze, “Do you know the man in my vision? Do you know the baby?”

“Show me,” Lido instructs, laying his cool hand across Ariadne’s eyes. It happens quickly, just a flash of the man before, tears streaming from his eyes as he gazes desperately out into the snow. 

Ariadne doesn’t get a chance to catch him as Lido falls back, hand pressed tightly to his own mouth to stop the cry that scratches at his throat. He could recognize that face anywhere, that desperate and gasping mouth that spewed Pythonissa prayers for safety and relief. Even though he hasn’t seen him in so long, years and years, he looks just like Fatin.

“Who is it? Who is the man?” Ariadne slips from her glass table, coming to kneel before him.

“Nasir. His name is Nasir,” Lido trembles in her arms, gripping her forearms tightly, “My youngest brother.”

“And Ashur?” Ariadne does not know if she wants to hear the answer.

“The eldest,” Lido leans his head heavily onto Ariadne’s small shoulder, “People always said he was taken by vampires, but I remember what happened. I remember him running after them, begging for them to save him. Kallistos, my father, could do nothing as they rode off into the night.”

“Is he dangerous then?” Slipping her fingers through the soft edges of Lido’s inky hair, Ariadne tries to caress some of the tension from his shoulders. 

“If Nasir is pregnant, then yes. He’s the only one of our six that can carry children. Do you remember Albinius’ prophecy about my people? About the child that will be born to kings? That child is Nasir’s.” Lido raises a ringed hand to his mouth, “He is our jewel. The physical representation of our god Alkhaliq. One of our gods is only born every 1000 years, and Nasir is that god.”

“What was Alkhaliq’s fate?” Ariadne asks quietly, still moving her fingers slowly. 

“He gave birth to the world. A snake that was the father of the other gods, created from his own womb. He is neither male nor female, but a separate, higher being. He was mates with Sator, our father too,” Lido explains, “Nasir was born with his mark upon his back – the total elements at his disposal.”

“What happened to the last Alkhaliq representor?” Ariadne tilts her head up. 

“Their name was Pekka,” Lido slips his hand through Ariadne’s, squeezing tightly, “Suicide after his twins were taken and killed for witchcraft. They were burned at the stake at age fourteen.”

“Oh.”

“If Ashur is after Nasir, then death is coming to him. We must warn him.” Lido stands suddenly, moving towards the doorway. 

“When was the last time you even saw Nasir? How will you know where he is?” Ariadne hastens her steps to follow him. 

“I haven’t seen Nasir since he was seven, but I know him, his face, his magic. Of the six of us, Nasir has always been the most protected. I may not know where he is, but if anyone does, the twins will.” Lido passes doorway after doorway, looking for a secluded room in which to cast his magic. 

“Twins? Why will the twins know?” Ariadne nearly slams into his back when Lido turns. 

“Mika, Jem, and Nasir all share the same mother. The rest of us don’t.” Lido shrugs, glancing away thoughtfully, “If they are able, their magic may be strong enough to communicate across far distances through their dreams.”

“Dreams? I don’t understand. Lido, you’re not making any sense.” Ariadne cups her friend’s face gently, shaking her head. 

“It takes a lot of magic and the twins usually can only do it with each other. If I can reach them by fire magic, we may have enough time to warn Nasir not to trust Ashur,” Lido looks fiercely down at her, eyes dark, “He cannot trust that leech. Nothing good ever comes from him.”

Resigning herself, Ariadne squares her shoulders and leads Lido forward, into her own inner rooms. 

“What must we do?”

 

\- - - 

The sky is not yet the color of rust as Spartacus makes his way through the slick grass, breath a panted cloud before him. It is cold out, not yet bitter but the type that clings to hands and cheeks, staining both red. The front opening of the tent is always heavily guarded by at least two guards, this Spartacus knows for certain – he commanded them there. The back is not though, and with quick fingers, he manages to untie two pieces of leather and slip between the intricate tapestry of vines. 

The inner tent is dark, illuminated solely by the dark glow of the embers in the center of the fire pit – not quite dead but an angry orange against the scorched black logs. It’s very warm inside compared to the morning chill, contained heat mixing with the stale scent of sweat and skin – intimate and carnal and overly sweet from the flowers. Spartacus has been to the jungle before, a quest a long time ago when he was a younger man, and it seems that it exists within the thick leather and canvas of this tent. Vines hang luxuriously in loops and patterns, large yellow and pink flower burst open along the roof as the whole bed is surrounded by a canopy of white and purple buds. 

In the darkness, Spartacus can just barely see their outline through the white curtains, a wave of dark hair spilling over a pillow and furs, gray and white mixture of wolves and bears. The scent is strongest here, making his feline nose twitch. The lion in him makes his hair stand on end, the thick odor of mating and blood. He is nearly to the steps, hand outreached to the gauze, when the cold steel of blade presses to his throat. 

“You appear very fucking stupid, _friend_ ,” Agron’s voice growls against his ear, tenor vibrating down Spartacus’ spine, “to sneak into an alpha wolf’s tent and approach his sleeping mate. Do you crave death or happen upon it with foolishly open arms?”

“Apologies,” Spartacus replies slowly, fully aware of how deadly Agron can be with a blade paired with his temper, “I did not see you were absent from bed. I aimed only to wake you so we could exchange most urgent words.” Spartacus can tell when Agron realizes it’s him, hot breath on his neck lessening slightly. He doesn’t relax though. 

“Why do you enter as if thief in the night? You have always been welcomed through front door,” Agron’s grip on the dagger does not waver, but he does allow Spartacus to turn. Even in the dark, the other man can see that Agron is bare, skin slick still with sweat and something else, eyes glowing in the darkness. 

“Apologies,” Spartacus bows his head slightly in submission, “Something has happened and I wished to see you before anyone else. I did not think the guards would allow such an intrusion considering sun is not yet risen, so I slipped through the back.”

Agron lowers the knife slowly, brows still furrowed. It is reasonable explanation, but Agron has learned in these past months to trust no one – no matter previous relationship. Behind Spartacus’ shoulder, Nasir sighs and rolls over, blankets caught around his waist. Agron blames it on the light, blames it on exhaustion, but with Nasir’s bare back facing him, Agron swears that black ink curls up from his tattoo, spikey and vicious as it whips across Nasir’s spine. It is a phantom memory of when Nasir had killed the vampire – deadly lines that hint at the magic hiding in the smaller man. 

“Agron?” Spartacus asks gently, moving his head into the king’s line of vision. 

“Yes? What has happened?” Agron doesn’t mean to snap, glancing back to find that Nasir’s back is cleared, one long stretch of tan skin, cut with lean muscles and lines. 

“Your father is dead,” Spartacus sighs, hand coming to rest on Agron’s broad shoulder, “I am sorry.”

“Oh,” Agron meets his best friend’s eyes, unyielding, but there is no lying to this man. They have been best friends from the moment that Agron had wielded a sword at five. They have fought together, bled together, bonded by brotherhood not of the flesh but of loyalty and love. 

“You-“ Spartacus’ expression shifts slowly in surprise, jaw dropping slightly as his eyebrows raise. 

“He threatened Nasir, told me of his original plan. It was never going to be better. It was never going to change. I would have killed him a thousand times if I could, for what he has done – what he wanted to-” Agron’s voice raises, cutting himself off when Nasir grumbles in his sleep, curling forward more. Rubbing a hand over his face, Agron sighs deeply. 

“I pass no judgements, brother. I came only to plan for future,” Spartacus whispers, leaning forward as to not disturb the sleeping man, “Come, let us sit by the fire and discuss best way forward. I am sure Nasir is very tired from the festival last night and I wish not to disturb him.”

Agron nods, motioning towards the chairs that sit semi-circle around the fire. He lets Spartacus walk towards them, turning only to snatch up pants from floor, pulling the intricately embroidered leather up his legs. He keeps his gaze on Nasir as he dresses, entranced by the way the fire plays across him when Spartacus stokes it, bringing the embers back to life. He can’t get the image of those black claws out his head though. It feels like an omen, but of what, Agron doesn’t know. 

Spartacus settles down, facing a vacant chair as Agron moves beside the bed, lacing up the front of his pants. Glancing over, he notices the way the blankets fall below Nasir’s tattoo, the triangle and swirl of color. He’s still sheened in sweat, bronze and curved, a splatter of bruises leading up Nasir’s neck and over onto his spine. Heat rises in Spartacus’ face when Agron meets his gaze, unfazed but observing, and Spartacus respectfully looks away. He isn’t sure if it’s a blessing or a curse to be privy to such intimate moments between the royals. 

Agron blocks his view a moment later, stepping down and slumping in his chair, thankfully taking up the cup of wine that Spartacus offers him. He looks tired, chest a mess of scratches and bruises, usually bright eyes dark in the light. Spartacus doesn’t even know where to begin, instead, he takes a long drag of his wine. It doesn’t matter the hour, wine is needed in situations like this. 

“He sent Isolde and me to die during those tests. He knew I wouldn’t win. He knew that Nasir existed.” Agron sighs, resting his forehead on his hand, “My mother is dead. He would have killed Duro eventually. He sent me to war to die so he can claim Nasir and the baby. He would have never let the child be a child, be innocent. It would be a vessel, a tool that Gerulf used to claim his own prizes.”

“I do not fault you for killing him,” Spartacus reassures, “I am actually surprised it took you so long.”

Agron huffs a laugh, leaning his head back against the chair, shaking it slowly. “I suppose we both knew it was coming. There was no other way for this to end. Duro was in the tent when it happened, so we do not need to worry about him. He has sworn his loyalty to us.”

“It is not Duro that I am worried about, but the elders.” Spartacus links his fingers before him, leaning his chin on them. A noise from the corner draws his attention. “Does Nasir know?”

“Yes, I told him last night.” Agron glances over at his husband, eyes tracking along his smooth shoulders, arms curled towards his front. Nasir is whispering in his sleep, quiet murmurs interwoven with Agron’s name and words in Pythonissa. Apep’s coffin shaped head slowly peaks out over Nasir’s hip, gray scales matte and dark as the snake slides along the groove of Nasir’s spine. Where the snake touches him, tiny golden scales appear as if in answering, Nasir’s back shimmering. It only lasts a moment as the black mamba gives a gentle lick to Nasir’s shoulder before slinking off again.

“I do not know how you stand that creature here,” Spartacus exhales slowly, lip curling. “You know how deadly he is, right? One drop of his venom can kill a man.” He’s not one to usually make such comments, but something about the snake sets him at unease. 

“He makes Nasir happy.” Agron shrugs, turning back to look at his friend, “I will not take happiness away from him. Nasir swears he will be a good guard for the baby too, see it as an extension of himself.” Agron shifts again, finding a more comfortable position, “Now, what are we going to do about Solonius?”

Spartacus grimaces, stroking his chin, “You know he was one of your father's closest advisors; he has been for years. Plus, he's already suspicious of his poisoning and Nasir."

"Solonius has no right now," Agron grumbles, biting at his thumbnail, "He swore loyalty if Nasir proved the length of his pregnancy and his loyalty at the festival. Both of which he has done."

"I know, still," Spartacus shrugs, taking a moody pull of his wine, "There is little we can do when doubts are settled in. Solonius poisons the elders’ minds. He thinks you planned to have your father removed so you could claim the throne."

"I did, but not because I feel the pull of power or needed to be in control like Solonius wants to believe,” Agron answers bluntly, “I did it to protect my family – my people. Gerulf would see us all die for his advancement.”

“We cannot admit to that,” Spartacus sighs deeply, “even if it is the most honorable answer. You know that others will support your claim to the throne, but we must solidify your innocence from his murder – for you and for Nasir’s safety.”

“We do what we can," Agron leans further down in his chair, slumping at the heaviness of the situation, "Claim that the moon's calling was too much and Gerulf died. The medicus is very fond of Nasir and I’m sure will back up the claim. The people already believe that Heracleo was to blame for Gerulf’s poisoning. Those elders, old fucking creatures, are no men of mine. I would see them removed the moment I reach the castle."

Spartacus nods, agreeing, "If that is what you want, my king, but I do not think it will be that easy. We need to gain support and loyalty from strong allies. There are others who have waited for Gerulf to die and you to become king – old friends of Isolde. They will stand with you."

"The Outerland Nobles?" Agron asks, mulling over the idea. It's a smart idea, gaining loyalty and favor from men that have known nothing but harshness and brutality from his father. Gerulf broke more friendships than gained them. "Dietrich's support will also help - the bond of family always looks good."

"It is your kingdom now, Agron. Your father is dead and you have the crown. After the display last night, no one will doubt Nasir and your rightful place on the throne." Spartacus steeples his fingers, watching his friend closely. Agron's wide chest rises and falls slowly, breath even as he picks absentmindedly at his nail. It's a frustration habit he's had since a child, something Spartacus has always known about him. "What is it Agron?"

"If we are going to have these meetings, I want Nasir out of it. I only want him focusing on resting and enjoying the last few months before the baby comes," Agron grumbles, teeth gnashing on the consonants. "We shouldn't be relying on the beauty of his face to forge alliances."

"You know he only aims to help," Spartacus lowers his voice, glancing over to make sure that the man they speak of is still lost in slumber, "He uses what he has been taught to use, but he does it out of love for you. It is out of loyalty, not lust."

"I know that. I know." Agron grits out, flexing his fingers. It seems that he's fighting to keep his claws back. "I don't want him to think he has to though. That's not his role here. I won't use him for that."

"What would you have his role be then? To stand idle beside you? As your pretty but silent consort?" Spartacus asks, raising an eyebrow and scoffing. "He will not stand for that. Nasir deserves more than that."

"I do not wish to control him that way, only protect him," Agron shakes his head roughly, "I do not think he sees the way he is watched here - the way men stare at him. The way he smells now that he is pregnant. Nasir is still learning our culture, our people, our ways. He doesn’t realize what people are sensing him as fertile and willing."

"Your senses have changed since you become the alpha. Your powers are stronger, sharper. You have always been quick to jealousy, but now you have a reason for it,” Spartacus tries to sooth, holding his hand up when Agron begins to protest, “Agron, you know it’s true. Even now, with me sitting in tent and Nasir laid vulnerable in bed, you are alight with rage – even though logically you know I would never make move to take him from you.”

Agron waves his hand, unwilling to verbally agree but feeling the sting of the truth. “Regardless, Nasir’s assets do not belong sitting around a wooden table and fighting with old men. The way he is – the way he looks – should not be a tool that I require to gain loyalty. Especially considering that most men who seek favor that way are more keen to share than I am. Talk and debate - that will be our torture. Nasir is happy when he’s helping people, one on one. It is why the peasants bow to me and call out to him by name.”

“They adore both of you, but as where you have always raised a hand to fight,” Spartacus watches the king closely, not aiming to offend, “Nasir raises to caress. Your partnership will gain you your people’s undivided love and devotion.” 

“Is it better to be loved or feared, Spartacus? You have always been most wise when it comes to this land – these people. I fear sometimes that you should have been in my place – the heir to this throne.” Agron’s words are not bitter, just speculative as he settles again in his chair, sipping slowly from his wooden goblet. 

“I do not wish it. I have no royalty in my blood, no life of training in the customs, the dances, the dialect for the role. I fear weight of crown would cause neck to crumble,” Spartacus sighs, “I am but simple man.”

“You know that not to be true,” Agron lightly kicks his barefoot against Spartacus’ shin, “Even when we were boys, you always stood more skilled, more prone to logic, found it easier to stand in Gerulf’s highest standards. I have always been rash, brutal in my assault of topics. It is a wonder that I stand alive and without standing injury.”

“I do not want your title, Agron,” Spartacus taps him back, booted foot barely leaving dust on the leather of Agron’s pants. “Not then and not now. I am your friend, your brother, and I will stay that way until the end of my days. You know that I only aim to help you, advise you so that you do not fall to the madness of the kings before you. You are a better man, Agron, a better king.”

“When we reach the castle and stand among the stone halls of my forefathers,” Agron leans forward, reaching out hand to clasp Spartacus’ shoulder, “I will throw Solonius to the creatures that guard the deepest dungeons, and I would have you take up the mantle of beta to the king.”

“You would have me stand second? Before Duro?” Spartacus raises his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Duro will sit on the council and will be trusted advisor as well,” Agron replies, “but if I were to fall or something were to happen, I would see you assume my role – to take care of kingdom and most loved family.” Agron glances over at the bed where Nasir’s back still raises and lowers in slow breaths. “Nasir trusts you, when he does not have reason to trust anyone here. That is reason enough.”

“If this is your command, then I humbly accept.”

Spartacus agrees, and the two men fall into silence. It is still very early, and no sound resonates around the tent. Even the fire seems muted, popping lightly every once in a while, adding heat to the already jungle humid air. Lost to his thoughts, Agron’s mind drifts to the recent events that have transpired. The feeling of Gerulf’s neck under his palm, snapping easily with just a slight twist of Agron’s wrist. Spartacus is right about Agron’s powers. It’s not just the Wolf Moon restoring him. He is the Alpha now, the first leader of these people, and with that comes a new crashing wave of magic. 

Agron can feel it in his bones, the tightness of his body stretching to accommodate new muscles. He feels thicker, stronger last night when he had pressed Nasir down. Agron can sense the change but also see it, bigger and quicker. The wolf inside of him no longer growls to come out, but instead demands with howls and snarls. The lines between the beast and the man seem to blur even more as time goes on. Agron knows he must learn to control it before they hide themselves away in stone and mountains – returning to their castle set amongst the clouds. 

_So cruel_

A whisper interrupts Agron’s thoughts of his home, his kingdom, and the weight that has resettled back on his shoulders. The words seem to caress along his spine, ghost across his cock, through his chest. The scent of spices and sweat fill his nose, magic gentle but strong. It brings with it a warm coiling in Agron’s stomach, a vision of gasping breath and gold, sweat slick skin and a mouth sweet and bruised. 

_Falling to sleep with beloved husband buried deep inside of me, warm and solid against back with promise of more pleasure to come_

Agron turns his head slowly, can barely contain the groan as the other images invade him. It is torture and it is pleasure, sitting here before the fire in thick, leather pants when he only wishes to strip back down. The magic urges itself further against him, thick like fingers against his thighs, his stomach, up and over his shoulder blades. Bursting flowers with sweet nectar and ribbons of vines lashing out to help brace as they moved together, muttered prayers. 

_Only to waken and find sheets cold and you dried between thighs. Why do torture me this way?_

Nasir stands beside bed, eyes dark and glinting as he tracks over the two men before him. He hasn’t bothered to dress, instead opted to hold a thin, embroidered blanket around himself. The scarlet fabric easily drapes over his still gleaming skin, held together loosely at his waist. Tantalizingly, Nasir’s chest peaks out from between the folds of the fabric, a strip of skin dipping low to just above his navel. It makes Agron want to lean forward, lick the strip of flesh and suck a kiss to Nasir’s sternum just to hear him gasp. 

“Did we wake you?” 

Agron’s words feel thick in his throat as Nasir carefully steps down from the platform, blanket splitting tantalizingly over his thigh, exposing the length of his leg up to his hip. It’s a tease for his nudity, for the soft skin that Agron has pressed his mouth to over and over again. Nasir looks ethereal in his slow movements and the softness of the curls around his face; a god stepping down from his mantle to his loyal subjects. 

“Yes,” Nasir answers bluntly, blanket swishing over his bare feet on the soft earth, “Hour is very early for you both to be bent in such serious conversation.” 

“Apologies are mine to make,” Spartacus speaks up, watching the pair closely as they continue to stare at one another. He has been privy to quite a few moments before the pair, but nothing like this. Nothing this heated, where sweat still beads on Agron’s chest and the outline of Nasir’s body is a blurred line against the fire. “I had most urgent matter to bring before the king.”

“Perhaps,” Nasir grins a little, fingers ghosting down over Agron’s jaw in a soft caress as he leans close, “I should invite Mira to share bed with me. Winter months have already turned air cold and beds will grow even colder if beloved companions choose to spend valuable time bent together in intimate topics while other more _pressing_ duties are forgotten.”

_Have I ever forgotten my duties to you in this bed?_ Agron growls, using the opportunity to whispers the words into Nasir’s mind and drag him closer. Wrapping his hands in Nasir’s hair, Agron lets his tongue slowly caress along Nasir’s, drawing the kiss out slow and incredibly thorough, nipping at the soft plush of Nasir’s bottom lip. Agron can just barely taste the faint trace of himself still in Nasir’s mouth – tang and salt – and Nasir seems to notice it too, curling his tongue up over his front teeth with a soft exhale. 

_No, and yet I still feel you inside of me, even though you are not. Would it not be better if you reclaimed your place?_ Nasir answers, cheeks pinking. It is true that he can feel the phantom press of Agron’s cock inside of him, still sore and gaping to be filled once more. It is as if once they began to feed the craving, it has only grown. 

“The king is dead and it will not be long before elders, mourners, and others will come to greet you and ask for your guidance. I thought it best to be prepared before Solonius and his men cause ruckus at your door,” Spartacus tries to focus on the pretty beading of Nasir’s blanket, keeping his eyes at a respectful level, but it’s difficult when Nasir slowly slips forward, legs straddling one of Agron’s, sinking down into his lap.

“Come back to bed, my king,” Nasir whispers into Agron’s ear, breath hot as his tongue teases over the soft skin below the lobe, ignoring what Spartacus has said, “We shall bear weight of titles when other _duties_ have been fulfilled."

"Nasir," Agron slips hand under soft fabric of blanket and between Nasir's warm thighs, easing two fingers easily into where he is still slick and hot, "You will be the ruin of this kingdom if I give in to you."

"Why?" Nasir gasps, rocking slight back on the digits. Agron's large hands are perfect for this, a precursor to the cock that splits Nasir in half every time. He can barely contain the moan that threatens to break free, silenced only by muffling it into Agron’s neck.

"Because," Agron presses roughly to the spot inside of Nasir that has him whimpering, thighs shaking around Agron's wrist, "I fear I shall never find a true reason to leave you and will spend the rest of my days buried inside. Then all will fall to ruin and I will not find cause to care, as long as I’m permitted to stay within our bed."

Behind Nasir's shoulder, Agron can just make out Spartacus' flushed face - eyes cast into the fire though they dart over every few moments. It is clear that he can hear them, stuck between leaving the pair to the wiles and staying to try and keep them on the task at hand. It must be especially difficult, given that Nasir's panted breath has turned to quiet moans, blanket slipping from around his shoulders to pool around his waist. He looks so good, so perfect with sweat glistening on his collarbone and eyes glazed as he moves against Agron. It is why it pains Agron greatly to find just reason in Spartacus’ cause, and act to see logic prevail.

"Spartacus has point, my love," Agron pulls back enough to kiss the protest out of Nasir's mouth, slipping his fingers free abruptly, "We must prepare for today, even if hour is early and I still crave you. Duty calls us to our position."

_Our duty is to find position on bed with my legs around you._ Nasir whimpers, staggering back on unsteady legs, a look of disappointment and annoyance drawing his brow down. _You are so cruel to touch me in promise and then push me away_

_It is with the heaviest heart that I do so, I swear_ Agron bows his head, wrapping fingers through Nasir's and raising his hand to kiss the back. _I will find a way to make it up to you when threat of revolt and elders' rage does not hang over us. I swear it._

_Promises I fear will never be fulfilled._

Nasir sighs heavily, adjusting the blanket around himself to better cover his glistening skin. "The work of kings is never finished, it seems. I am to bath. If I must be awake this early, after long and tiresome festival of yesterday, can one of you at least see to meal?"

"Of course, your majesty." Spartacus bows his head, gratefully standing from his chair, "I will set guards to task."

He moves quickly back to slip through the tent where he first had entered, coming around to discuss the matter to the guards at the front. Nasir waits until he hears Spartacus' voice before he turns dark eyes to Agron with a smirk. 

"Do you realize that you are still covered in my seed? It has dried to stomach as if brand," Nasir brushes fingertips over the cut of Agron's abs, “and leather does nothing to hide the rise of your cock.” 

"It is trivial thing considering how you stand before me," Agron stands, crowding Nasir against the pillar holding roof of tent up high, "Claimed, filled, drenched in my scent. I can smell it on your skin, slick and dripping inside of you," Agron's thumb drags Nasir's bottom lip down, rubbing the plush skin gently, "clinging to tongue."

Relaxing his hold, Nasir lets the blanket pool at the cut of his elbow, fluttering open in the front. Flecks of white have dried up Nasir’s stomach, splattered on his chest, staining Nasir with Agron’s own come. It pulls a predatory growl from Agron's chest, leaning down to lap a stray droplet from Nasir's collarbone. Nasir answers with his own hiss, hand gripping Agron’s ass to pull him forward, grinding against him. Agron arches forward, hooking one of Nasir’s legs over his hip, only to be pushed away a moment later. 

"We have duty, remember?" Nasir steps around Agron, walking carefully over to the white curtains that hide bath from prying eyes. He lets his blanket drop then, an enticing and lewd expression cast over his shoulder as Agron's eyes are automatically drawn to his ass. Nasir lets out a laugh in the next moment as one of the guards calls out to Agron, distracting him just for a moment - but a moment that gives Nasir a chance to slip behind covering and from sight. 

Agron swears furiously all the way to the door, harsh Alptra mixing with Nasir's giggles.

\- - -

"I don't know why anyone is acting like it's a surprise," Duro snarks, yanking his tunic out from where it was thrown last night, "The man was fucking poisoned. He didn't have long."

"It was two days," Auctus gently presses his mouth to Duro's bare shoulder, smoothing down an unruly curl at his nape, "and he was the king. We have to mourn him, and you know that Agron is calling the meeting to prepare us."

"I'd rather spend all my time celebrating in here with you than stuck on my knees all afternoon, praying that he is accepted into the afterlife," Duro mutters, pulling the cloth over his head and belting it. "You know our whole day will be going from meeting to meeting, cloaked in fake shame and sorrow. I don't even think I can muster tears for him."

"I’m sure there are many who share your sentiment," Auctus hands Duro his cloak, smoothing down the gray wolf fur collar when Duro clasps it. “But unfortunately, we all have to play our parts. Yours is to play the perfect, mourning prince – devastated by your father’s death and the first support to your kingly brother.”

“And you?” Duro looks over his shoulder, nuzzling his nose gently against the tip of Auctus’, “What is your role?”

“To stand behind you and enjoy the view,” Auctus grins, tilting his head up to nip at Duro’s top lip as one of his hands squeezes Duro’s ass. 

“You shit!” Duro’s squawk is lost when Auctus full slots their mouths together, drawing the kiss out until Duro sighs sweetly against him, leaning back into his chest. It seems the barb is easy to soothe when Auctus curls his tongue like that, traces the soft lines of the roof of Duro’s mouth.

“You know my role is always to be beside you, protect and help shelter you from all this shit.” Auctus breathes the words against Duro’s slick mouth.

“You have done a very good job,” Duro leans his forehead gently against Auctus’, eyes bleeding into the golden color of his wolf, “of keeping me protected.”

“Heart would seize in chest if anything were to happen to you,” Auctus turns Duro, wrapping his arms around his waist. “I hope you know that.”

“I do,” Duro strokes his hands against Auctus’ wide chest, feeling the muscle tense under his fingertips, “Apologies for previous words. I spoke out of turn and I let anger control my tongue.”

Pressing forward, Auctus presses his mouth gently to the corner of Duro’s eye, kissing his temple right after. He can feel Duro’s gentle sigh against his throat. Though they are the same height, standing like this, Duro feels smaller, slumping slightly into Auctus’ broad arms. 

“I do not hold the grudge. You spoke out of a hurt heart. I gave into anger when I left you.”

Auctus slowly pulls himself away, bending down to pull Duro’s crown from underneath the table nearby. He dusts it off, picking a few strands of grass from the antlers. Lifting it as if it’s a holy remnant, Auctus gently settles it among Duro’s curls, managing for once to get it straight.

“You look very princely,” Auctus’ voice holds no mockery, only gentle affection.

“I would give you a crown to wear as well,” Duro grins, buckling his sword belt to his hip. He knows they’re taking too long, but he can’t be bothered. He knows Agron will understand. Hell, his brother is probably find every excuse possible to keep himself alone with his husband. Why should Duro hurry himself along?

“One day.” Auctus moves to the tent door, holding back the flap and letting in the icy morning air. “Now come on, it would be unfit for a prince in mourning to be late.”

\- - -

When he was younger, sixteen - nearly seventeen, Nasir remembers that Kallistos had them slotted to perform in a festival in the nation of Gadaí. Massive men and women who make their fortune by robbing others, stalking the highway, and holding people for ransom. 

"Land pirates," Mika had sneered as he wove fake diamonds along the thick braid of Nasir's hair. "Unworthy of this sort of ceremony."

Nasir remembers little of the actual festival nor the man that bought him after. What Nasir recalls most clearly is the ring of fire that he danced inside, the flames licking at his heels. He of course could control it, let it wind around his body, yet the men surrounding him hadn't known. They stared at him as if he was some sort of god, unwise to the truth in the words. It had felt less dangerous, less charged, than what is happening now within the tent. 

Servants have dragged two long tables together, the width at the top broad enough two people can sit behind it. They've piled the whole thing with food, smoked meats and fruit, fresh bread. Nasir knows he should partake in it, Melitta's warning a mantra in his head, but he can't muster the will. Instead, Nasir turns his attention to the nearest manservant, setting the large amphora of wine down on the table. 

He's dressed with purpose, leather leggings clinging to his body, tunic just short enough to highlight his trim waist. The boy is pretty, there is no denying that, as he moves across the room to set the large vase down. He seems to make a show of it, bending farther over than necessary, gaze cutting over his shoulder to glance at Agron.

"Your majesty," the boy stands, bowing with a shy smile and an under eyelash glance. 

"Thank you Celsus," Agron waves his hand, distracted by untangling the leather strings around his neck.

"Is there anything else you require?" Celsus' blue eyes slowly track down the deep v cut of the king's tunic, gaze lingering on the thick ties keeping Agron's leather pants shut. He doesn't seem to notice the cut of muscles highlighted through the fabric, the way Agron's stance is wide, a solid line of power topped with a large gold crown. "I am here and willing to do anything you require."

"We're fine." Nasir raises an eyebrow slowly at Celsus' sudden change in demeanor - twisted scowl, glares meeting each other's. "You may go."

"I-" Celsus moves to take a step towards Agron, pausing when Nasir turns towards him.

"That was a command from your king," Nasir feels the rush of power from the words, burning hot along his spine. "Do you wish to disobey?"

"Highness." Celsus' sneer is half hidden when he bows, turning away with a flash of his blond curls. Nasir watches him retreat, casting a nasty look over his shoulder as he slips out into the sunlight.

Pursing his lips, Nasir turns back to his husband who makes a noise of triumph, slipping his necklace over his head - strands smooth. He seems to have missed the whole exchange, lost in the task at hand.

"Do your servants often boldly offer to suck your cock when they bring you your wine?" Nasir asks, hand slipping to his waist, “Or is this special occasion?” 

"What?" Agron looks around, brow furrowed in confusion as if he’s missed something entirely. The tent is silent until Auctus and Duro enter followed closely by Crixus and Naevia. 

"That boy," Nasir motions towards Celsus has come back in carrying a large bowl of fruit. "I believe that he may have fallen to his knees if you had glanced at him."

"Who?" Agron laughs slightly, "That boy? Celsus? He would stand disappointed as I am not swayed by boys with inability to even grow hair on face. Nor do I wish to repeat error of having him on his back."

Nasir tongues his cheek, unimpressed as Agron's easy dismissal until what he actually said seems to clarify in Nair’s head. Jealousy burns hot and rough through him, twisting in his stomach. The thought of the boy’s hands on Agron flashes hurtful and bright, to be held down and ravished by him, feel the way Agron’s voice slips into growls when he’s close. Celsus knowing Agron in ways that only Nasir thought he did.

"You have fucked him?" Nasir turns fully then, tilting his head back to fully stare up at Agron, demanding answer. 

"Once," Agron's confident gaze is slowly melts into dismissive discomfort, "I do not recall specific details. It was some time ago. He got wrong impression and I sent him from bed."

"What impression was that?" Nasir sneers, glancing heatedly over the boy before snapping his gaze back. 

"That he would hold position if we fucked," Agron turns Nasir's head gently back, fingers ghosting over the crown across Nasir's brow, "Position that wholly belongs to you."

"And how many other boys were lured into your bed under promise of marriage and love only to be turned out by you? How many in this city have sated your pleasure? Your need to get off?" Nasir sneers, untrusting and bitter. He does not let himself think of the number, doesn’t want to place the faces with names. Nasir does not want to know who else has shared Agron, thought twists a new wave of heat in his stomach.

"He was only to get wrong impression," Agron shakes head, insulted but trying to stay calm, "I never used it as ploy to gain favor or entrance." He leans forward then, curling a strand of Nasir’s hair around his finger, “Do not linger on thoughts of others. They are nothing now, a way to pass the time when I did not know you.”

Nasir huffs loudly, annoyed but he knows Agron speaks truthfully - not the type of man to lie. The furious side of Nasir knows that he would not need false promises to lure anyone into his bed, never take advantage like that. Yet, Nasir knows that Agron would not have to try hard to fill his bed. Men and woman would willingly fall to their knees either for the beauty of Agron's body or the power that he possess.

Stepping closer to hide when his hand drifts down Agron's stomach, Nasir weaves his fingers through the laces at the front of Agron's pants, knuckles purposely dragging along the line of his cock. He tugs tightly, slotting their bodies together with a dark look, having to crane his neck to glare up at Agron. 

"I do not like his eyes upon you," Nasir hisses, surprising himself with the venom in his voice, "Nor his thoughts drifting to what does not belong to him."

"I am yours," Agron soothes, barely hiding his delight at this new side of Nasir. He’s never seen him like this, vicious and angry over the idea that someone might try and catch Agron’s eye. 

"See to it that others do not forget that."

Agron can feel his cock twitch when Nasir wrinkles his nose, clearly still angry at the idea of anyone else's hands on Agron. His hand is still hot on the front of Agron’s pants. It makes Agron want to pull him down, smother him in kisses and bites, touch him into pleasure, finding fingers deep inside Nasir. Turned on by his barely contained rage, the darkness of his expression only highlights the shape of his mouth, his pout at the thought of anyone trying to claim what belongs to him. Agron gives into the temptation easily, leaning down to nip at the soft skin, sucking Nasir’s bottom lip into his mouth in a wet bite. 

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Nasir mutters, pushing his hands into Agron’s chest to shove him back, already panting.

“Tempting,” Agron smirks, backing up when Nasir pushes again, “Don’t worry yourself. I’ll save it for you later. No need to threaten the servants.”

“Are you amused by this?” Nasir pinches Agron’s shoulder roughly, stamping his foot. “I will not stand by as if some pretty, dumb child as men - and women for that matter - stare at you as if cock is their last meal.”

“Nasir!” Naevia had been approaching the couple in greeting, stopping abruptly at harsh words. 

“Do not waste energy on such thoughts,” Agron growls into Nasir’s ear, holding his jaw in place as he sucks a kiss into his neck, “Not when I have proven to you all of last night who holds my heart.”

“You are an insatiable, cruel, awful man,” Nasir tries to frown, tries to regain that anger, but it’s difficult with Agron’s huff of laughter ghosting across his ear, teeth nibbling at the soft skin just below it. 

“I am,” Agron mockingly bows low, waving his hand in a flourish. “Apologies, your majesty.”

“Ass,” Nasir mutters, straightening his clothes just in time for Tove to throw open the door to the tent, Dietrich and Saxa following closely behind. He doesn’t miss Agron’s laugh, not the exaggerated wink thrown his way. 

\- - - 

Dietrich can count on both hands the amount of times he's been allowed to stay in this city since Gerulf became king. The last time, Agron had stood barely twenty years old, still filled out and strong, but with air of reckless arrogance and stamina fitting for his title. Now though, he's all contained pose and flickering eyes - trained to contain the rage, the fury that comes with their bloodline and a father such as Gerulf. 

Drawing out a chair, Agron takes great care in guiding Nasir forward, helping to lower him down. It's clear that the change in his body has thrown Nasir's sense of balance off, tilting his head up to accept Agron's offered kiss, and Dietrich can't help but wonder what Nasir was like before this. He's heard the report from Tove - the dancing, the magic, the relentless power that oozes from everything Nasir does. 

Settling down across from the royal couple, Dietrich helps himself to a cup of wine as the other royals and advisors take their position. It goes with great notice that none of the elders are here - none of Gerulf's trusted men. No, this is a council of Agron's making. 

"Nasir, the lights," Agron murmurs, having yet to take his seat and instead lingering beside his husband's chair. 

Lifting his arm, Nasir tilts his head into what the dark boy's whispering into his ear, waving his hand in a circle. The movement is dismissive, practiced, but the result is not. The vines that once hung thick and dark above the roof of the tent curl back, slipping around one another to form larger trunks and yet free up the center of the ceiling where the hole is for the fire pit. Natural sunshine filters in through the thinned canopy. 

"Fuck the gods," Dietrich can't catch the phrase from slipping out, staring in wonderment up at his nephew-in-law. 

"He put them there," Tove mutters over to his father, reaching near him to pull an apple from a bowl, "He should be able to control them."

"Put them there?" Dietrich raises an eyebrow at his son, out of the corner of his eye watching as Agron and Spartacus mutter to each other - brows furrowed. 

"Yeah, it's part of his magic," Tove shrugs a shoulder, "Creating life. Pietros can do shit like this too, but not to this level."

“Why though?” Dietrich’s pale eyes track over the large flowers hanging from the vines, curtains of white and purple lilies woven together over their bed. There are even large palm leaves, thick and wide enough a man could lay across them, sprouting up from the floor. “Why grow all this?”

“Oh,” Tove chomps through his fruit, the juice dribbling a little on his chin as he speaks, “I don’t think he controls this, or he can’t control himself. Nasir only grows shit like this when they fuck.”

"Tove!" 

Agron's bark interrupts Dietrich's reply, glaring down the length of the table at the two men. 

“Hold fucking tongue.”

Standing there, Agron looks impossibly tall, gold glinting around his forehead and teeth sharp. Beside him, Nasir’s dark eyes glint the same as the snake that curls around his forearm, tongue slipping out to taste the air. Dietrich has seen his brother in his prime, when Gerulf was young and vicious, capable in both combat and in kingly conversation. Everyone feared him, but Dietrich is not so sure that the memory is anything compare to the present. The younger Gerulf that Dietrich remembers would cow at these new kings – power crackling within the room. 

“Pietros,” Spartacus’ voice breaks the standoff, turning to the darker man with his fingers still resting on Nasir’s shoulder, “Can you please tell the guards to announce anyone’s approach? I would see us interrupted.”

“Of course.” 

He quickly steps around the table, head towards the door, a lingering glance towards Duro that Dietrich doesn't miss. Dietrich doesn't know this boy, can only assume he is from the same place Nasir is from their matching, gold snake bracelets clasped around their upper arms. He feels like an outsider, observing the way this kingdom runs, the small relationships that build up the strategy behind Agron's rise to power. Dietrich wants to know though, wants to unravel this structure to see what is really pushing them forward. 

With a sigh, Agron waits for Pietros to return before he steps up to his chair, resting his fingers around the curved wood.

"My father is dead.”

Agron does not waste time with preamble, but instead says it bluntly, words cutting sharp. His expression doesn't flicker, hardened and grim, the only sign of weakness the way he accepts Nasir's gentle brush against his thigh. 

"We have a lot to accomplish in the coming days, including the burial and the relocation of the city, and it is extremely important that this family unify to keep the elders and the peasants agreeable.”

Dietrich glances around at the people surrounding this table, eyes trained front and expressions calm. There are people here that Dietrich doesn’t know, young faces lined with the years that he barely recognizes. It's almost as if they knew though, already expected for their king to be gone – dying shamefully from poison and not in battle. Dietrich can’t help it, a laugh bubbles up inside of him, spilling out in the silent tent, his fist hitting the table over and over. 

The expressions around him only make him laugh more, Nasir’s horrified mouth agape, Agron’s furrowed scowl, eyes glancing fervently between his husband and Spartacus. Duro is holding some man’s hand, and they look at each other for a long time before turning back, the man’s hand drifting to the sword at his side. Even Saxa looks surprised, eyebrows raising. 

“I’m sorry,” Dietrich waves his hand, wiping at his beard, “I’m just surprised is all. How did he die?”

“Heracleo, the Pontas captain, poisoned him after Agron returned from the war and he did not receive the payment he was promised.” Spartacus cuts in, fingers clenched upon the table. He’s all calm control while Agron’s own body is one long line, tense to hold back what is clearly rage. 

“A pirate poisoned him? What was the prize he wanted so badly?” Dietrich asks, casually leaning back in his chair, thighs spread under the table. 

“Me.”

Nasir smooths a hand over his stomach, black fabric clinging to the swell of it. Dietrich knows he must be far along, clear from the way Agron lingers close behind. He’s surprised at how well Nasir is functioning though, swollen thick with child and responsibility. 

“He wanted my power. A pirate with an asset such as myself, the magic to control the elements, is a pirate to be feared.”

Dietrich knows it’s a lie. He’s not stupid enough to believe that men and women haven’t been flocking around the little king with promises of glory and power, but why would that make the pirate king kill Gerulf? It would be wiser for Heracleo to have slaughtered Agron and claimed Nasir for himself. 

“Regardless, Nasir has gained and proven his worth as king and consort,” Agron bites out, “and he is not the issue. The issue is Solonius and his goals of pitting us against one another. He does not think we are worthy of the crown.”

“That old hack?” Dietrich shakes his head, tossing a few grapes from a bowl into his mouth, “He has been after the crown for years.”

“Times have not changed,” Spartacus leans forward on his elbows, “It will be easier now to secure the line now that Gerulf has passed, but the tasks still has some struggles. We need to get our people to the safety of the castle before we try to make any sort of changes. The open road is not a safe place for betrayal.”

“I already told you that I have no desire to wear the crown, nor do my children. We only want the lands in the north and the proper support to keep it.”

“You will have what you want,” Agron waves a hand, “if and only if I am able to maintain my position.”

“We need to gain the support of the peasants, the soldiers and workers who will swear loyalty and will do anything to maintain us,” Nasir speaks up, “They need to believe in us.”

“And how do you propose we do that when their king is dead and you suddenly rush to claim the throne?” Saxa bites the words out, accusatory and sharp. “Seems as if you played a part in his poisoning. After all, didn’t he try to annul your marriage while you were away?”

“We did not kill Gerulf for the crown,” Agron snarls, eyes flashing dangerously, “nor does he have any right to change the marriage he required of us!”

“Agron-“ Spartacus starts warningly, reaching out a hand, but Agron yanks away. 

“I am done talking about this. I am king now. I wear the crown. You all knew it was the plan, that one day Gerulf would die and I would claim my birthright. Why do you act like this is such a fucking surprise?”

Chest heaving, Agron squares his shoulders and glares down the table, teeth sharp against his lip. He doesn’t even seem to notice Nasir pushing back, using his grip on the arms of his chair to propel him into standing. He moves out from the head of the table, fingertips dragging along the back of each chair he passes. 

“Let us end this game.”

Everyone turns to watch him, narrowed gazes with grim expressions. Only Spartacus seems to be smothering a smirk. 

“We all fucking hated him. For the things he did to us. For the things he did to those we love. I’m sure everyone here would love to be the one responsible for his suffering, his death.”

There is not a single protest in the room. 

“Gerulf is dead now though, and we are what remains. We are the family that has the chance to change this world, to undo the horror of Gerulf’s reign, but we cannot do that if we are at each other’s throats. Solonius would love to find a reason to dismantle us, and others will come. Others know what is growing in this room.”

Nasir gently cups his stomach again, turning to look up the table at Agron. They seem to communicate with their eyes, and Dietrich is surprised when Agron lowers his head, bowing to whatever Nasir has said. He doesn’t understand the significance of the child, but he does see the way Agron’s fangs retract into his mouth.

“We either unite or we fall.”

Silence blankets the room, heads down as if all are in prayer. Nasir stands as a beacon, back lit by sunlight from outside. He is an icon, a god glimmering and the voice of reason. Dietrich does not remember a time when a room has felt this charged, churning power and energy. From down the long, rough wooden table, Agron slowly raises his cup of wine, toasting it towards his husband in one solemn line. 

“Long live the king.”

Agron says it quietly, a psalm in whispers. 

“Long live the king.”

Nasir repeats, plucking a glass from beside Tove’s hand. 

One by one, each person around the table stands, lifting their cup in unison. Though it is informal, it is clear what they are swearing – loyalty towards the royal couple, unity in the task of moving them forward. The family that is forged by love is stronger than the one forged by blood. 

\- - - 

Considering how that could have gone, Nasir feels relieved as he watches the group slowly dismantle, soft conversations starting as the group partakes in the food, sitting down. He knows that the days ahead will be tiring, already his body aches from the baby's constant kicking, its need to stretch and grow, and the pressure for Nasir to remain strong - to appear kingly. Melitta's warning always hangs over him, her fear for his well being the more he pushes, but Nasir does not have a choice. At least telling Agron about his cravings for him have helped, even if Nasir has not confessed that part of his need is based on having Agron's strength, the joining of their magic helping to calm the baby down.

"Spartacus, go meet the elders as I'm sure they are on their way here. I will see them in the royal courts." Agron moves away from the table, heading to where his sword leans heavy against a pillar. He looks oddly more barbaric now in the thick leather clothing than his usual strappy armor. The air is too cold for such attire now.

"Nasir will not be attending?" Duro raises an eyebrow, leaning heavily back on Auctus. They've been sharing fruit between them again, Duro's mouth stained red. 

"No, I am to Völva," Nasir smiles, reaching towards the table to snag a piece of bread, "Agron and I think it best if she return since she has been helping with the pregnancy. Melitta may need the extra help if something should happen during traveling. My magic won't be able to focus on other things."

"Völva?" Dietrich turns sharp eyes towards his nephew-in-law, "You would invite her back to your court?"

"She is your mother," Agron speaks up this time, glancing up sporadically as he fastens his weapons around him. Nasir does not miss the pointed way he lays Nasir's jeweled sai daggers on the table, "And my grandmother. She is part of this family."

Drizzling honey across his bread, Nasir chews slowly, watching his husband. He's been pulled into conversation with Barca and Crixus again, speaking through his teeth. It seems that the three can never find common ground when Spartacus isn't around.

"Nasir?" Dietrich approaches slowly, expression merry and open. "May I have a moment?"

"Of course." Nasir can feel apprehension prickling along the back of his neck. He knows it's wrong, but Nasir cannot look at him without thinking of Gerulf - their eyes the same above their large beards. 

"Thank you for your kindness. I am sure my mother will be most pleased to return," Dietrich smiles, having to lean his head down to meet the eyes on the little king. "She must be very fond of you."

"She has been a comfort in my time of need and I know she wishes to see her great-grandchild born," Nasir's can feel his face is warm, temperature seeming to always be higher now that he is pregnant.

"You are very far along then?" Dietrich asks, motioning towards Nasir's rounded belly. 

"Six months. Though it will turn seven soon," Nasir shakes his head, glancing down, "It will be a miracle if I carry the baby to term. It seems to grow bigger every day." As if on cue, the baby seems to shiver inside of Nasir, giving a few light kicks against Nasir's ribs.

"Isolde felt the same way when she was pregnant with Agron. He would kick her relentlessly and stretch. She was tall but thin, and I am surprised she handled it so well." Dietrich offers gently, a kindness he can tell Nasir appreciates when he gives a short laugh. 

"Well now I know who to blame all the kicking on," Nasir grins, "The baby has not stopped. Even now it moves relentlessly."

"May I?" Dietrich holds out a hand, respectfully keeping his distance until Nasir nods.

Dietrich gently curves his hand around the top of Nasir's stomach, easing his palm over where the baby moves. Nasir can't help giggling when the baby stills, only a moment later sending off rapid fire of little squirms. 

"Amazing," Dietrich grins, awe gracing his face, "It is a miracle. I did not think that Agron would ever have someone to create a family with, but I'm so glad he allowed me to help protect it."

"Yes, we are happy to have you here." Nasir gently wraps his hand over Dietrich's, patting the warm skin. 

"With the betrothal, it will only help to keep you and the baby safe," Dietrich pats Nasir's waist, cooing down at the baby. 

"Betrothal?" Heat, warm and sickening, slowly settles in the pit of Nasir's chest, spreading further down to twist his diaphragm. 

"Of course." Dietrich looks to the side, drawing Nasir's attention to where Agron is retracting himself from his conversation, eyes wide and desperate.

"What betrothal?" Nasir can feel the sickness crawling up his throat, ignoring Agron for Dietrich. 

"The baby to Tove," Dietrich tries for lightness, grin forced, "It won't be permanent, of course, but a way to keep it from being sought after from others. I thought Agron would have told you."

“No.” Nasir pulls away from Dietrich’s hand, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“Uncle, perhaps-“ Agron joins them suddenly, words cut off as Nasir turns towards him, scowl deeply etched into his face. 

“Agron,” Nasir starts, biting out the word before taking his lip into mouth, swallowing hard. “What is going on? What is he talking about?”

The look on Agron’s face gives it away, the horror and guilty look, the way he keeps himself back from Nasir. It has been such a long time since they’ve fought, since the painful rage has filled Nasir, but this. This is betrayal like Nasir has never known, acid rising to coat the back of his throat. He wants to scream, wants to turn angry hands against the one he loves the most. 

Nasir does not think he can control it this time, magic flaring out to suddenly turn the fire pit cold, a single strand of smoke wafting towards the ceiling. The sudden chill alerts the whole group, silence descending as they turn towards Nasir. Even Pietros lingers between Barca and Auctus, hand raised in conversation. 

“Get out.” 

With clenched teeth, Nasir raises a trembling arm to point at the door. Naevia is the only one to move, stepping around the table and towards the royals, back straight and hands at her sides. She stops abruptly though when Nasir shakes his head, face folding in on itself.

“Nasir-“ Someone says his name, gentle and coddling, but he does not need it. This anger is his own, his right. 

“Get the fuck out of my tent!”

They move quickly, sparing glances over at the yelling king, surprised at the outburst. Nasir is usually the one to swallow it back, keep cool in contrast to his husband. But Nasir does have his tipping point, and it is clear he has reached it. The flap of the door flutters over and over until only Agron is left, standing immobile with wide eyes and hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He looks unsure of what to do next, standing with hunched shoulders, eyes unwavering from watching his husband. 

“Please tell me,” Nasir starts, cursing the angry tears suddenly flooding his eyes, “that you did not give our baby away. That you did not just sign their life to another without considering what you were doing.”

“No, of course I didn’t. Dietrich offered to support a betrothal that would protect the baby,” Agron sooths, still immobile. “It is a contract signed in blood to keep the two promised to one another.”

“Protect the baby? By promising it to Tove?” Nasir’s voice shakes, mirroring the way his hands do as well. “Promising it to a man that is older than the baby’s own uncle? Taking its choice from it?”

“If the baby is betrothed, others will not come for it. It belongs to someone else,” Agron explains, placating tone beginning to twist, “And Tove will easily break the promise when the baby is old enough to make the choice.”

“People are going to come for the fucking baby regardless of whether you have signed a piece of paper or not!” Nasir suddenly shouts, fury sharp and tangible. “It has been sought after even before I could bare it! The prophecy came from the Master Seer in the North – Albinius is the highest authority when it comes to visions.”

“That’s why I’m trying to protect it anyway I can,” Agron snaps back, teeth sharp as he clenches them together, “I’m fucking trying Nasir.”

“Why didn’t you just promise me to him too? Give us all away for someone else to protect? How can Tove be fucking betrothed to a child that still grows inside of me?” Nasir nearly screams, drawing closer to slam his finger into Agron’s shoulder. 

“It’s my baby too!” Agron steps back from Nasir, raising his hands. 

“Whose magic allowed this to happen? Who carries it inside of them, through all the sickness and the pain?” Nasir hisses, a shattering of gold scales drifting up his neck and onto his jaw, getting lost in his hair. “Will you hold the baby to your fucking breast and feed it?”

They fall into silence, energy charged between them as Nasir wipes angry tears from his face and Agron stares at him, lost as what to say. He knew that Nasir would be upset about this, knew he should have talked with him, but he had to act. Agron wanted to protect them as best as he could, thus Dietrich offered the best solution. 

“Nasir, I know you are upset, but it is not real. It is just another precaution.” Agron raises his hands towards Nasir, going for placating, but they are easily brushed away. 

“To Tove? He’s so-“ Nasir searches for the word, lip curling in disdain, “ _old_. He’s your fucking cousin, Agron. He stands even older than I am.”

“You are not old yourself though,” Agron reaches out, snatching Nasir’s shoulders in his hands, “You must see that I did this for our protection. We have no idea who may be plotting to come and take the child away from us. I did it for the safety of the child.”

“Protection? You sold our child away as if it were nothing but a pretty bracelet to be snatched up for the first person who wants to wear it. The child has not even been born yet and you trade its fate as if it’s yours to control. All this time-“ Nasir chokes, wrenching away, turning to face the side of the tent. He’s openly crying out, cheeks red.

“All this time what?” Agron growls, losing his own temper. He doesn’t understand why Nasir won’t see reason, won’t see that what he’s done is to help, not hurt. 

Nasir turns back vicious, black lines whipping across his skin. It’s the exact image of Agron’s vision earlier, sensing the shift from happy magic into defensive. 

“All this time you’ve feared becoming your father, only to turn into mine!”

“I am not-“ Agron is interrupted by Nasir’s bitter laugh. 

“ _You dance for our protection. You fuck for our protection. Everything you do protects your family, little jewel,_ Nasir spits, hands in fists at his sides, “Will we let him dance and sell himself for our safety when he’s old enough too?”

“My love-“ Agron shakes his head, sickly pinpricks lingering down his spine. 

“No! Don’t call me that,” Nasir wraps his arms around himself, whimpering as he staggers, “How could you do this? Did you think I would just lay back and let you make all the decisions? That I would just agree?”

“I only wanted to protect us and the baby,” Agron shakes his head, “It was a rash decision with the best of intentions.”

“You did not even think of me when you did this. You did not even care.”

Agron gently pulls Nasir into his arms, wrapping him up closely. He presses kisses into Nasir’s hair, even as Nasir tries to lean away, tears falling quickly down his cheeks. Agron is sure to kiss them away too, nuzzling against his damp cheek. It fucking tears through his chest, the feeling of Nasir’s pain, tasting it on his tongue. The magic between them is vicious as the vines around them die, curling into black dust.

“Nasir, I am the king. I am going to have to make choices you might not agree with.” He murmurs, rubbing a hand along Nasir’s spine. It does not last, the calm, as Nasir leans away, eyes narrowing as he roughly yanks away. 

“My apologies, your highness. I did not realize that you were sole commander of this family.”

“Nasir-“ Agron tries, stepping forward, halting instantly when Nasir holds out his hand. 

“My mistake.” Nasir braces a hand on his lower back, bowing as deep as he can, “Your Majesty. If you do not require me, I will see to following your command and collecting your grandmother.”

“Nasir!” Agron barks, stepping forward and gripping Nasir’s hand, pulling him closer, “I did not do this to hurt you.”

“Then undo it,” Nasir stares up at Agron, eyes wide and searching, “I will not promise my unborn child away. I won’t. I promised myself the day that my father left me here that I would never trade my child like this, and you can’t either.”

Agron swallows, unable to get the words out but he leans down, kissing Nasir’s forehead. It’s the only promise he can make, even if it feels cheapened as he can still feel Nasir’s tears staining his collar. 

\- - - 

Nasir grips the reins tightly in one hand, swaying with the movement of the horse below him. He's a proud creature, hair black and sleek with a small tuft of white between his eyes and on his powerful chest. Nasir had instantly taken to him when the guards had led him to the stable, claiming that the horse was unbroken - a wild king. Yet, when Nasir had entered, the horse instantly lowering its head in a bow before dropping to its knees to allow Nasir on. He had not been given a name yet, thought to be too untamable, but Nasir had pressed his ear to the side of the horse's thick neck and had heard it uttered deep inside of him - _Seele_.

The forest is half dark in shadows, the gray overcast of winter spurring breath into hanging clouds. Every step forward sends a jolt of angry pain up Nasir's spine, starting at his hips and making its way up to fester between his shoulder blades. He should curse Agron for it, for the way he is tempting, hot pleasure that Nasir still thirsts for, but he doesn't have the energy. The fight from this morning and the visit to the witch queen Völva has exhausted him beyond words. 

"The world is dying," Pietros murmurs next to Nasir, astride his own pale, speckled mare. "Can't you feel it? The land is freezing."

"Winter here can be harsh," Tove speaks up, urging his own horse forward, "Everything hides away - even us. The castle is hidden among mountains and tall, evergreen trees. It is our den."

"We are not used to such savagery." Pietros sighs, looking miserably at the bleak sky through the thinning canopy. "I feel as if the warmth of the sun has abandoned us."

"We are abandoned, Pietros," Nasir murmurs, tucking his fur lined hood firmer around his cheeks. "The bastard sons of a homeless people."

"You have found your place among us," Naevia, who sits astride to the left of the king, guides her horse closer. Trepidation creases around her eyes, expression dark. 

"I have only found death and misery here," Nasir mutters, looking away from his friend and staring straight. 

"Except for the life that blooms inside of you, created by love and happiness," Naevia's tone sharp, unforgiving. "Your child-"

"A commodity to it’s father," Nasir lowers his head, pulling gently on the reins for Seele to stop. "This is the place."

The vial in his palm grows warm as Nasir steps onto the frozen earth, the grass covered in clear, shimmering crystals. It crunches under his boots, echoing back to where Pietros also moves forward. When Völva had pressed the black, speckled syrup into Nasir's hand, her expression had been grim, old lines of her face carved deep as if life circles in a tree. 

"You know what you ask of me, correct?" She had croaked, keeping the small bottle between both of her hands.

"I know the risks," Nasir had nodded, reaching forward to cup the back of the woman's scraggly hands. "I need to know, Völva. I need to see."

"It does not change your place among us. Agron will not cast you away if it is true." Völva had tried to reason, but Nasir could hear no more. He took the bottle from her, hiding it away in his robes. 

Now, standing in the middle of the forest, Nasir's hands tremble as Pietros' intertwines with his. They share a look, years of love and secrecy between them before they step forward again - this time towards the altar that has been placed below a tall, dusty colored weeping willow. The leaves snag on their cloaks, getting caught in their hair, but still they move forward, leaving Naevia, Tove, and Mira behind in the silent forest. 

The altar is simple, a wooden box covered in a long, embroidered scarf. The crimson of the fabric stands in stark contrast to the icy conditions around it. Placed in the center are a few items, a small copper bowl, a knife, and strand of gold. Behind it and flanked on either side by large white candles, a statue of a deity stands. It looks like a man, stomach swollen with pregnancy and head the proud shape of a cobra. 

"Nasir," Pietros asks gently, easing the royal cloak from Nasir's shoulders. "Why do you do this?"

"I need to know," Nasir whispers, slipping his tunic off as well, kneeling into the hard earth with just his pants to cover him. "Why do I have this gift? Why do the gods punish my child with power that everyone will covet? Am I who I suspect?"

"Fatin never told you-" Pietros silences when Nasir shakes his head, picking up the dagger. 

"How could she have known she would die so soon?" Nasir closes his eyes, "No. I do not remember if she tried, and Kallistos hid all things from me unless it pertained to how to please a man. I have to find out now. I have to know to protect the baby, to protect Agron."

Pietros watches in silence as Nasir slices his wrist, holding it over the bowl to catch the blood until the wound slowly heals. A moment later, his face has changed, thin fangs held above the copper and dripping green venom to join the crimson. Lastly, Nasir pulls the vial from his lap, uncorking it. Videre sloshes inside, the liquid of Vates - the Pontas father of sight. It is said to come from his own weeping tears. Highly potent and gives the drinker the power to see its heart's desire. 

The liquid turns a bronzy gold inside the bowl, the color bleeding out from the center when Nasir swishes it together. 

"Vates guide me. Sator give me strength." Nasir whispers, glancing once at Pietros before tipping the bowl to his lips. 

Instantly, a glowing heat scatters along Nasir's chin, down through his neck, turning his body into moving gold. It seems as if he's suddenly been transformed into a living statue, even the tips of his eyelashes encased in the metallic liquid. He feels suddenly heavy, a sharp sensation behind his eyes until he is forced to close them. 

The visions come quickly, a montage of memories that Nasir can't seem to grasp. Running through a field of wheat with Mika and Jem. Dancing before a flaming fire. Kallistos' gentle hand dragging a brush through his hair. Kalmar's screams when the fae had come for him. Then suddenly, through the gleaming fog, one memory slows until it comes into brilliant focus. 

_  
Nasir's small feet tap lightly on the beaten ground, dirt flying up around him as he darts through the cluster of wagons. People sit outside before fires, talking, laughing, the night still young with just a splattering of stars above them. He knows this path, can sense the familiar magic. Nasir pads up the small, wooden steps of a carriage, leading him inside. Around him, crystals and scarves hang down, reflecting disks of light from the small lantern in the corner. In the middle, leaning up against a large pile of pillows, Fatin sits, smoothing her thumb over crystals. There is a tiny bowl of water before her that she is meditating on, tiny waves rolling back and forth._

_"Mama," Nasir cries, large droplets falling down his cheeks and onto his small, embroidered vest. It streaks the dirt there, twin lines like paths across the plumpness of his face._

_"Nasir," Fatin moves the bowl to the side, stretching her arms out to the toddler, “Habibi, why are you crying? What has happened?”_

_"Mika and Jem have gone to market with father," Nasir rubs at his nose, eyelashes clumped together, "They said I could not play with them. That I was too small and no one would wish to see me dance."_

_"Now now, my little one, you know that is not true. You are a very good dancer,” Fatin produces a damp cloth from seemingly nowhere, washing it across Nasir’s face and down onto his neck. “Mika and Jem are just older and can now go places that you cannot. One day you will have to join them, and then you will look back on these days as a blessing – not a curse.”_

_"But why?" Nasir stares up at his mother, the broad slope of her nose, her full mouth pulled into a gentle grin. She is beautiful, Nasir knows this, and yet can only see his own face in hers. “I want to help.”_

_“You are helping by staying close by your mother,” Fatin brushes a curl back from Nasir’s forehead, “You milked the goats this morning and helped me sweep out this wagon.”_

_“I want to do more,” Nasir rubs a ruddy hand over his eyes, “I want to be like you.”_

_"Do you remember the prayer we say to Sator - father of our people?" Fatin asks, brushing a few stray tears from Nasir's rounded cheeks._

_"Sator protect me and give me strength," Nasir mumbles over the words, still new in his mouth, "Father and creator, life and magic. Bring your blessings upon me. So that I may live my life in your glory and love."_

_"Very good," Fatin gently praises, producing a comb and settling Nasir before her. She gently drags it through Nasir’s long hair, easing curls back from tangles. "When Sator created the world, he was very lonely in his palace. He wanted someone to rule the world with. Do you remember who he called?"_

_"Alkhaliq from the desert lands," Nasir replies, remembering to sit still has his mother's hands work. "A snake that could take the form of man. Sator loved him deeply and gave him the power to bear children."_

_"And?" Fatin prompts, working quickly and gently to ease Nasir's curls into a more manageable plat._

_"And Alkhaliq stayed with Sator, giving him children and creating the gods. Their first was Maharib - the god of war and truth." Nasir stammers over the words but remembers, rewarded as Fatin pulls him back into her lap again, laying a gentle kiss to his brow._

_"Very good," Fatin praises pressing a small, purple stone into Nasir's palm. "One day, Nasir, there will be men and women who will seek you out. They will want your powers, your magic, and what you are destined to bring into this world. But whenever you get scared or you feel alone, I want you to squeeze this amethyst and remember that you are above this world. You have been called out of the destitute lands of the desert and you shall supply the world with hope again."_

_"I don't understand," Nasir whimpers, touching Fatin's cheek, "You will not always be there?"_

_"I will live inside of you, as your mother, as the one who gave you life," Fatin holds Nasir closely, eyes sad, "Do not forget that this type of love is stronger than any in the world. It is what will fuel your magic."_

_"But where are you going? I don't want you to leave," Nasir's tears come anew, filling up and spilling onto his red cheeks. Easily, Fatin kisses them away, pulling Nasir up to be cradled in her arms, rocking them both gently._

_“It is my sacrifice to make, Nasir,” Fatin soothes, resting her cool hand against Nasir’s cheek, “I knew who you were the moment you began to grow inside of me. I know what my fate is.”_

_“I will not let you,” Nasir sobs, gripping his tiny fists in Fatin’s dark hair, “I will not let you leave me.”_

_"Hush, habibi, hush. Rest now," Fatin kisses between his eyes and a sudden calm stretches over Nasir, drooping into sleepiness. "Do not let yourself linger on things you cannot control. I am here now and will protect you.”_

__  
The vision ends and propels Nasir forward, hands barely catching himself before he crashes to the ground. The liquid around him drips onto the grass, staining Pietros' hands when he jumps up, helping to support Nasir with a quiet cry. Nasir is openly crying now, panting sobs that twist his stomach and spill out onto the frozen ground around him.

"Nasir? What is it? What did you see?" Pietros asks fearfully, easing his friend down onto his side. 

Panting, Nasir's eyes rove around until they can focus on Pietros, mouth gaping in shock until finally words push from inside of him. 

"She told me, all those years ago, she told me. She knew she was going to die. She knew," Nasir sobs, suddenly unable to keep the tears back. “And she hid the memory from me. Her magic. She did not want me to know.”

"Fatin told you what?" Pietros wipes at Nasir's cheeks with the end of his cloak, ignoring Tove's voice from outside. 

"Alkhaliq," Nasir mutters, gripping Pietros' hands between his own, "I am Alkhaliq's heir - his reincarnate. She knew who I was, what was going to happen. The men in the market weren’t after her. They were after me. She told me to run because they were after me."

"But that means," Pietros' gaze slowly slips to where Nasir's stomach presses to the earth, the last droplet of gold slipping away onto the frozen grass.

"The father is not Sator. Agron is not of our people, but the child-" Nasir slowly sits up, "It is the reason people seek it, want the child for their own. Even without the prophecy. The child of two gods - one the Alpha to claim the moon and one that created the earth? There will be no other child like it in this world."

"We should return," Pietros helps Nasir stand, grabbing the king's tunic from the ground, “It is not safe to linger after using such powerful magic.”

Turning, Nasir reaches out to the other man, face solemn and pleading. "Pietros, you cannot say anything," Nasir begs softly, "Agron does not know. I don't know how I even will tell him."

"You have to," Pietros stands tall, eyes narrowed, "You have to tell him. No more secrets. No more lies."

"But-" Nasir chokes under Pietros' sharp glare. 

"I know you are mad at him, but he at least has the right to know who he married," Pietros grips Nasir's hand tightly, lacing their fingers. "You are not alone in this."

"I know," Nasir finally deflates with a miserable whimper, "I know. I will. But please, I do not want to discuss this any further. Let us find some moment of peace away from all this shit."

Pietros can only agree as he leads Nasir forward, away from the altar and the pressure of the Pythonissa world and into the cold, frozen one of the Alptra. 

\- - -

Tove has barely said anything all day. Instead, he has watched, observed, and catalogued it all away for later inspection. Tove knows that no one wanted him around today, Nasir’s dark glare and Pietros’ sneer had been enough of a sign to show where he stands with them. 

Tove hadn't said anything when Nasir had given the instruction for the peasants to begin packing, as Gerulf's funeral would be held that night and they would be moving out towards the castle very soon. He didn't breathe a word when the horse knelt down for Nasir to slip on, nor the way he had easily guided it with his knees, even when he knows for a fact that Steele hadn't ever let anyone ride him. He was especially silent when Völva had welcomed them with open arms, serving Nasir a strong smelling tea and praising how well he's handling the pregnancy. Nor the scene in the woods where Nasir had come out from under that weeping willow with tears in his eyes and gold under his nails. 

Now though, with the silence of the forest around him and Nasir slumping in his saddle, exhausted and showing it, the royal prince can't seem to stop it. The words boil inside of his throat and before he realizes he's doing it, he's drawing his own horse close to the king's, leaning over to murmur to him. 

"I know you're pissed at Agron and rightfully so," Tove doesn't hesitate even when Nasir doesn't so much as raise his head, "but I want you to know I had nothing to do with it. I didn't even know until you kicked us out and my father explained why."

When Nasir doesn't reply, Tove presses further, gently laying his hand on Nasir's thigh. He rubs over the thick material of his pants, catching an embroidered bead on his thumb nail.

"I mean, asking for the hand of a baby? An unborn one at that? What am I supposed to do? Take you out of dates?" Tove forcibly chuckles, "Woo the womb?"

Slowly, Nasir turns to look at him, a curl dangling across his forehead and onto his cheek. The skin around his eyes is red and rubbed raw, a certain exhaustion lining his slumped posture. It seems the magic and the pregnancy have taken their toll, and yet Nasir seems to have enough strength to roughly shove Tove's hand off him. 

"Like I told my husband this morning, I am not in the business of selling children," Nasir snaps, mouth in a thin line, "Nor do I want to make light of the fact that your father thought it wise to blood bind you to me."

"Nasir-" Tove tries, holding up his hands in surrender, only to be cut off by the king's eye roll.

"Consider the betrothal null and void and this discussion over," Nasir easies up higher, trying to straighten his spine but a flicker of pain shutters him back down. “And if you put your hand on me again, I’ll break all your fingers.”

Gulping, Tove has to settle his rapid heartbeat before he continues, knowing full well that Nasir could carry out his threat and get away with it. It’s the perspiration dripping down Nasir’s cheek that gives him the strength to lean back over, voice soft but being careful not to touch the other royal. "Are you okay? You don't look so good.” 

"I'm fine, just tired," Nasir hisses, pressing his palm against the rounded left side of his belly, “My stomach has been aching for hours.” 

"Maybe we should hurry back-" Tove goes to say, offering concern, only to be interrupted by Naevia's sudden hand raising, halting the whole party. 

"Shut up," She hisses, motioning with her head for Mira to draw closer. She's already cocked her bow, guiding her own dapple mare forward with practiced ease. "Do you hear that?"

"Footsteps. Thirty feet behind us. Twenty or so," Mira whispers, glancing to the side, "Been following us for a few minutes. They're-"

"Mages!" Naevia cries just as a bolt of light suddenly erupts over them, shattering like fire in the air. The magic makes the air smell sickly, like burned meat and leaves, acidic and sharp. From where it falls, it ignites the surrounding area, flames licking higher. 

"Go!" Tove urges, smacking his hand roughly down on the back of Nasir's horse. 

"Wait! Pietros," Nasir's fingers slip from the reigns, grasping desperately for the Steele's mane as he turns it, heels digging into the flesh between the horse's ribs. "Tove get him!"

Brightly robed men and women suddenly break through the trees, familiars scattering around them as they charge. Their faces are twisted in anguish, twigs and leaves protruding as if they've grown through the mages’ flesh. Nasir remembers these types from when he was previously in the woods, left abandoned by Duro. They stalk the outer border of the Alptra land, waiting for merchants and travelers to rob. He's never heard of them so in land before though.

"Just go," Pietros shouts, back of the group and struggling to get his horse to kick forward. He's stamping and turning in circles, frightened by the birds circling around him, trying to peck at his eyes. 

With a roar, Tove shifts on top of his horse, back splitting to reveal long, silver hair, teeth sharp as he uses his height to snatch the birds out of the sky. One of the mages screams, another falling over as their familiar is ruined between Tove's massive jaws. His roar is not as loud as Agron’s, not nearly, but he still stands an impressive statue in his wolf form.

"Alptra witch!" One of the mages, a woman with berries laced through her lips, dripping both blood and juice down her chin, "Get the witch!"

Reaching out his hand, Nasir bursts a wave of flames from his palm, the energy it takes rocking him dangerously in his saddle. It's enough to dissuade the nearby mages, a man with an oak branch through his cheek screaming loudly as the leaves around his eyes begin to singe. 

"Come on!" Mira is sitting backwards in her saddle, using her foot to loop the lead to Pietros' horse around her foot as they run forward, sending well placed arrows into the belly of a nearby man. 

"Nasir," Naevia rides beside him, urging her horse faster. Behind them, the mages are running too, swinging along the trees, commanding their aid through their magic. 

"The town," Nasir cries out in reply, horror sinking into the pit of his stomach at the idea of leading this sort of battle into the heart of the city. The peasants this close to the border are all farmers, the ones that Gerulf exploited for years. They’re old, weak, and this type of battle could result in a lot of damages.

"Forget it. We have guards," Naevia's words fall on deaf ears as Nasir meets her eyes, resignation already formed. "Nasir, no!"

It's to no avail as the king yanks hard on the horse’s reins, using all of his strength to try and slow the animal down. Steele staggers to a trot, thrashing his head in panic as the others soar past them. He can't see the mages and their pets, but he can hear them, the urge to run only halted by his master's calm hand on his flank as he’s turned slowly towards the mages.

"Steady," Nasir murmurs, reaching out his hands, twisting his wrists. He can feel the magic welling inside of him, sucking every ounce of energy he has. Behind him, Nasir can faintly make out the sound of hooves approaching, meaning the others turned around, but he does not have time to waste. Closing his eyes, Nasir has just a moment to breathe before the power is bursting from his fingertips in a shower of golden light.

Roots fly from the ground, weaving around them in a storm of patterns and shapes. They crash together, the mages freeze at the sight, screaming as the earth swells up. There is a thrumming in the air, a desperate storm that cracks across the sky, as the now formed cage slams down around the mages. It pushes them closer together, surrounding them in sharp thorns and foliage. 

Now that it's started, Nasir cannot stop, twisting them tighter and tighter around the group, the screams and cries for mercy lost on him. His magic wants blood, wants vengeance, rage uncontrollable with no one there to stop him. No one could. The vines tighten more, twisting into a beautiful patchwork, the resounding crunch silencing the forest once more. Everything comes down, stilling as Steele whinnies softly, a barely there sound in the eerie stillness after death. 

"Fuck," Naevia gasps behind him, one hand clutching Pietros' bicep, keeping him on his horse. To her side, Mira still holds her bow at her hip, one hand placed over her mouth. Tove is the only one not on his steed, stripped bare from changing back to a man as he begins approaching the king slowly. 

"Nasir?" Tove asks softly, hesitating when the man slowly lowers his arms, chest heaving. 

"How close are we to town?" Nasir's voice is no higher than a whisper. 

"A good half mile," Tove steps closer to hear, unsure as Nasir lowers his head, "No one got hurt. You saved us."

“That’s good,” Nasir smiles faintly, beneath him Steele stamps impatiently, worriedly thrashing his head. “I know how much Solonius hates having his meetings interrupted.”

“That’s true,” Tove laughs, still not sure if he should reach out and touch the royal or not. “Do you want to head back?”

“Yeah. Gotta prepare for the-“ Nasir’s words slur, blinking rapidly as he tries to articulate, “prepare for the-“

Tove watches in horror as Nasir suddenly slumps, eyes rolling back as he relaxes. The faint causes him to lose his grip in the saddle, shifting from upright to falling. Thankfully the prince is close enough to grab him, hoisting Nasir into his arms very reminiscent of the last time they had found themselves at the end of a battle with the mages. 

“Shit!” Tove gasps as he settles Nasir’s cheek against his chest, looking bewildered between Naevia’s scowl and Pietros’ shocked gape. “Oh fuck. What do we do?”

“We get him back to town, obviously,” Naevia rolls her eyes, nudging her knees into her horse’s sides, “Come on.”

“What do you want me to do?” Tove can hear his voice cracking, unable to stop it as he shifts Nasir’s dead weight around until he can hold him more stable. He remembers distinctly Nasir being much lighter the last time. 

“Fucking follow us,” Naevia snaps over her shoulder, “and hurry. He needs to see a medic now.”

Carefully and with a sure grip, Tove does as he’s told, being cautious not to jostle the unconscious king too much as he starts into a light supernatural jog. It puts him at the pace of the galloping horses, still curling his arms around the tiny body he’s holding to shelter it from the harsh winds. It seems to little avail for as soon as they reach the border, Nasir spasms awake, crying out at the top of his lungs. 

“Fuck! Nasir, what’s wrong?” Pietros suddenly appears before them, hands fluttering to touch Nasir’s forehead. He’s abandoned his horse to a nearby peasant, the boy’s eyes huge as they take in the state of the group. Both Naevia and Mira are decked out in full Alptraum armor, the thick leather straps and beadings of their kind. Pietros and Nasir are dressed similarly in robes of black with glittering necklaces, Nasir’s royal cloak stained with dirt and leaves on the fur. Tove is the only one absent of clothes, back streaked in mud and carnage from the slaughter. 

“Make way! The king is injured!” Behind them, guards rush forward, shouting at one another in sharp Alptra, the commotion helping to drown out Nasir’s next scream. “Fucking move! King Nasir is injured!”

“The baby-” Panting, Nasir’s eyes roll, gripping a hand into Tove’s shoulder hard enough it feels like it will break the skin.

Tove doesn’t have to think of a reply as through the chaos, Crixus shoves forward, shield cast aside in favor of taking Nasir out of Tove’s arms. He’s gentle about it, cradling Nasir to his chest as if Nasir is a small child, weighting nothing. He’s even careful to tilt Nasir’s head up, resting his sweating cheek to the cool cut of armor on Crixus’ chest piece. 

“Tove, see yourself to fucking cloth,” Crixus snaps in his deep voice, brows furrowed as Nasir moans pitifully again, “Naevia, go get your mother. Pietros with me.”

“Crixus,” Nasir’s eyes flutter, weakly trying to touch the edge of Crixus’ dark beard. 

“It’s okay, your highness,” Crixus soothes, striding quickly and sure towards the royal tents, “You’re safe now.”

\- - - 

Agron wonders idly if this is how the rest of his life is going to be, stuck in a windowless room for men old enough to be his fucking grandfather droning on about shit he doesn't care about. He can think of about a dozen other things he would rather be doing right now than listen to Solonius and Pericles fight back and forth on the specification of the prayer to be said at Gerulf's funeral, most of those things on the list including ways to find Nasir and smooth things over from the fight this morning.

He wishes that someone had told him after he became king and passed through the test of the Wolf Festival that everything was going to change. It's not just the stress of the new position, but Agron can feel his powers changing. The wolf that once lingered at the back of his mind is now at the front, senses stronger and more demanding. From across the table, he can see the bead of sweat clinging to a single strand of Duro's hair, smell the lingering stench of sex and someone else, Auctus probably, but also the wine that Duro drank last night still on his breath. It's so exact that Agron can even pick out the lingering musk of Nasir on himself, the sweetness of pregnancy and mate that now follows him everywhere. 

Not just the sense though, Agron's anger is sharper and more direct, easier to fall into growling and sneers. The people around him respond to that, lowering their heads or turning up their necks if they think they need to show their submission to him. It all brings a dull ache to between Agron's eyes, the urge to curl up and hide from it dragging through him. 

"I am sure that my father will be pleased with the arrangements," Duro drawls, chin resting on his fist. "Or would be. Whatever."

"I know it is hard, your majesty," Vettius reaches out a hand and gently brushes Duro's shoulder, grin slow and eager, "but we are only here to help."

"My brother," Agron speaks up, watching in almost amusement at the way Duro's eyes widen in shock, "and I are in mourning. You must forgive us our thoughtlessness."

"It would appear that all of the preparations have been made-" Solonius begins, voice drown out by the screams from outside. 

It's many voices together, peasants hollering as guards shout above them, a single voice raising above telling them to make way. The table rises quickly, questions thrown around as they head towards the door, shoving past the guards to get a better view. In the front of the group, Agron has the best vantage point, but can barely make out what is going on. A crowd surrounds a group of soldiers, Crixus' voice billowing out from the center as he commands his men forward. 

Suddenly breaking away through the ranks of drab clothed peasants and the bright armor of the guards, Mira darts through the frozen grass, hair a mess and face streaked with what looks like blood. Her words fall on deaf ears as a new sound fills the air, a sound that stops the very beating in Agron's heart. 

Nasir's scream is mournful, a painful wail that seems to shake the very ground they stand on. The sound rips through Agron, panic raising the hair on the back of his neck as Nasir tapers off into a whimper before they slip past, the guards still shouting. Agron doesn't even think, moves to follow them, when his arm is roughly snatched back. 

"Your majesty," Solonius tries to smile, though it seems he is more grimacing, "We have much more to discuss. I am sure they can handle it."

"That's my fucking husband," Agron snarls, yanking away. 

"There may come a time, my king, when you will have to choose between your duty and your husband," Solonius gravely crosses his arms over his chest, leveling Agron with a firm look. It is an almost exact replica of an expression that Gerulf used to give - disappointment and control. “I hope you will make the right choice.”  
Standing up straighter, Agron brushes his hand down the fine fabric of his tunic, almost as if he’s brushing away the invisible dirt left by Solonius’ now absent grip. 

"Do not worry, good Solonius, as that day will never come.” Agron’s teeth are unnaturally sharp when he grits them together, lip curling into a sneer. Before him, the old man moves to nod, clearly getting the wrong impression. It’s taken away a moment later as Agron continues. 

“My choice will always be Nasir.”  
With that, he turns away from the group of elders, royal cloak fanning behind him and flanked on either side by Spartacus and Duro. Behind his back, Duro is quick to hold up a single finger towards the elderly man, Solonius recoiling in surprise to be addressed in such a vulgar way.   
Blood pounds in Agron’s head, throbbing as he shoves past random people, barking for them to get the fuck out of his way. Panic has slicked Agron’s palms, barely being able to breathe. He can’t seem to force his lungs to work, focus on anything but moving forward, moving to where Agron last heard Nair’s cries. Using his magic, Agron reaches out towards Nasir’s, trying to find the familiar glow of it, but nothing is there. There is a dark void, silence except for the tang of blood and sweat. He can’t even hear Nasir’s cries anymore, drown out by the worried discussions around him, peasants whispering to each other. 

“Move!” Duro shouts, shoving two large men apart as they slam through, finally breaking through the circle. 

The royal tent stands before them, hides and fabrics overlapped in strands of brown, tan, and gold. The leaves that had once surrounded it are absent, stripped down to nothing but curling ash on the frozen ground. A few of their trunks are piled near the door, sealed shut except for one whose lid stands open and is half full. On the top, a small blanket shimmers cobalt and silver, embroidered with silver stars along the edges. It’s clearly handmade and Agron can smell Nasir’s scent all over it, a royal blanket made for a baby prince or princess. 

“What is going on? Where is my husband?” Agron snarls, moving to pass by the guards at attention by the door, but they link their spears together with the gravest of looks. 

“Apologies, highness, but we cannot let you enter. By order of the royal physician and captain of our guard.” Agron knows these guards, men under Crixus’ sect, Mannus and Acer. 

“Royal physician? I am your fucking king,” Agron knows he’s spitting, roughly shoving off Duro’s arm when he tries to pull him back, “Let me fucking pass.”

“We cannot,” Acer squares his shoulders, glancing behind Agron’s back, as the other guards draw closer, hands close on their weapons. “We are very sorry, but these are our orders.”

It’s a standoff as Agron’s chest heaves, hackles up and bared. The wolf inside of him paces, lashing his tail and spit dripping from his teeth. He will not be denied, would tear the fucking necks from anyone who dared to stand between him and his mate. Agron can feel his self control snapping, each strand after another, the vibrations of magic thrumming through him. 

“Make way!” Naevia’s screaming voice breaks the tension for a moment as Melitta and her shove through, Melitta clutching a large bag to her chest. Her smooth face is wrinkled and when she passes Agron, she sneers up at him. Naevia does not bother to glance. 

“Melitta!” Agron shoulders between Mannus’ and Acer’s chests leaning towards her even though the guards struggle to hold him back, “Let me see Nasir!”

She disappears with a snap of the leather, Agron being repelled by the two guards. He slams back into Spartacus and Duro who hold him tightly, ground him down. Her words repeat like a mantra in his head, pounding, but it’s dull compared to the wolf roaring inside his temples when Nasir cries again, sound woven with sobs. 

“Let me into the fucking tent or see your lives taken from you,” Agron snarls, unable to restrain the transformation as his teeth elongate, eyes gleaming. 

“They do not move because I told them not to,” Crixus’ voice sounds from the dark void of the doorway, slowly slips from within the tent, face grim. His chest plate is smudged, dirt and blood lodged within the markings of the bear across his pectorals. 

The scent hits Agron with force, a slamming inhale through his chest, overwhelming and sick. It’s Nasir, from the blood on the bear’s snarling face, down to the sweat along the beasts’ flank, to the scent of skin and pregnancy on Crixus’ stomach. The tears tinge it all with salt, and before Agron can swallow it all down, he’s charging forward. He slams into Crixus’, chest to chest, using his height to its full advantage.

“What did you fucking do?” Agron growls, close enough to Crixus that he can see the flicker of gold in his dark eyes. 

“I do?” Crixus’ snarl is half human, half not, and he slams his palms into Agron’s shoulders, shoving him back. “I carried your fucking husband from the edge of town. I took him out of Tove’s bare arms and protected him through the crowd. I fucking sent Naevia for Melitta when Nasir woke and began screaming about the baby. I fucking saved him and where were you?”

“You smell-“ Agron chokes, fangs cutting into his lips, blood pooling. 

“Smell like Nasir? Unlike you, who stand there reeking of fine wine and pleasant conversation,” Crixus’ teeth snap sharply, “while the rest of us break ourselves to serve your fucking higher purpose. You sit on your ass, clothed in finery, while your heavily pregnant husband defends fucking land and commands your people. We all work for your pleasure, _King_ , so do not raise fucking voice to me when all I did was protect the one man actively trying to save our people!”

The blood splatters up Agron’s wrist as the punch lands squarely in the space between Crixus’ nose and his cheekbone. The force of it vibrates up Agron’s arms, twinging in his elbow, and causing him to stagger. It’s not well formed, but fueled by vicious anger and the desire to inflict pain. But Crixus knows him, has known Agron since childhood, and is quick to retaliate. 

The men slam into the ground, scattering peasants as guards rush forward, only kept at bay by Spartacus’ barked orders. Agron has more power now, a young Alpha male, but Crixus has brute force and experience behind him. He hits Agron hard in the mouth, blood exploding from his torn lip. Agron doesn’t let that deter him though as he rakes his nails across Crixus’ back, feeling the flesh tear apart in ribbons. They manage to roll to their feet, reaching for swords, when Spartacus shoves between them.

“Stop this!” Spartacus cries, keeping his elbows locked as he holds the two men apart. Behind Agron, Duro and Tove take each of his arms, holding him steady as Crixus pants, spitting blood on the ground. 

“I am going to fucking kill you,” Agron snarls over Spartacus, the crimson dripping from his mouth staining down the front of his tunic. 

“For what cause? I spoke the fucking truth,” Crixus scoffs, dragging his arm along his nose, “What great sacrifice have you given so you can wear that crown? What have you had to endure?”

“Do not fucking talk to me of duty as if I was coddled to breast my whole life,” Agron knows he should silence these words. The peasants around them are all staring, sizing him up as a ruler, but he cannot fucking breathe. The fury is too much. 

“What is going on?” As if called, Naevia steps from within the tent, her hands covered in what appears to be a type of salve and blood. She dunks them in a barrel nearby, wiping the water on her cloak. “Do you fall to fucking madness while your husband lays within tent possibly having your child?”

“Having my-“ Agron instantly turns towards her, the pounding in his chest changing for a completely different reason. “What do you mean he’s having the baby?”

“My mother does not know what ails him, only that he is in extreme pain and the baby is causing it. She believes he may be going into labor, but it is too soon, and if he does, he may not survive. The child takes a lot from him,” Naevia levels him with a firm glare, unimpressed, “And while Pietros and Melitta work to save Nasir’s and your child’s life, you stomp and scream outside.”

“My only concern is Nasir,” Agron defends, bristling under her accusation. “I do not understand what happened.”

“We were attacked by mages on the road,” Tove speaks up, careful to not approach the still fuming royal. “We were getting closer to town and Nasir didn’t want to drag the battle to the peasants. He lingered back and killed them, but I think it took a lot of his magic. He had been complaining about pains in his stomach all day, especially after Pietros and him went off to do some magic.”

“Some magic? What magic? And you did not bring him back sooner?” Agron snarls, turning to his cousin, “You thought that letting my heavily pregnant consort defend our city was the better solution?”

“It was out of our hands,” Tove shakes his head, “It all happened so quickly.”

“Now is not the time to discuss this,” Naevia snaps, turning her head with the rest of the group when Nasir cries out from inside the tent, a miserable moan following. “I am needed inside and you must remember your place, Agron.”

“My place is forever by my husband’s side,” Agron shifts, the rage cooling off as the powerful ache settles in, a dull throbbing where Nasir’s magic used to be.

“Then sit down, highness, and hold fucking tongue. You do no one service by causing more injuries Nasir will undoubtedly feel the need to fix,” Naevia crosses her arms over her chest, “Your hysterics have only caused him more stress and more agony.”

Surrendering, Agron agrees to her command. He sinks onto an overturned log and waits. The peasants eventually disparate, throwing backwards glances and whispers behind their hands. Agron wishes he could care but every time he tries to think of anything else, another wail or cry sounds from inside the tent, and he is focused back upon Nasir again. 

Slowly, the sun sinks down the sky. Blues turn to amber and wine, clouds scattering as stars begin to take form. The dusk brings on a new wave of cold, and Agron takes to pacing to keep warm but also stave back the anxiety. Neither Duro or Tove have tried to speak to him, Spartacus only glancing up every once in awhile in concern. They know nothing will sooth him, stuck forever in the panic of what ifs. 

Finally, after what seems like days and years and hours suspended over time in the cruelest of ways, the tent flap opens and Melitta steps out. Her face is sweat streaked, gaunt and furrowed. A dark liquid stains the front of her gown, eyes watery as she slowly turns her head up to look at Agron, shaking it slowly. 

“What? What is it?” Agron’s voice is not his own, thick and cracking with emotion he will not allow. Not until he knows. 

“He is alive,” Melitta whispers, a ghost of a smile, “but just barely. His body cannot withstand that sort of magic. The baby is already taking too much of it. As the child grows, it feeds off Nasir’s powers.”

“But he’ll be okay, right? He just needs to rest,” Agron cannot help stepping towards her, “The baby is going to be okay too right?”

“I warned him not to do this to himself,” Melitta sighs, head bowed as she looks away from Agron, “I begged him to rest, to allow someone else to control the tides.”

“Melitta, please,” Agron stoops a little to catch her gaze, “Nasir is going to survive this, right?”

“I’ve done everything I can.” 

Melitta lightly pats Agron’s shoulder, slipping past him with a barely there glance. A moment later, Pietros comes out, face weary and tear streaked. Tove reaches for him, but Pietros easily steps past, reaching forward to grip Agron’s hands in his own instead. He stares up at Agron for a minute, not vicious or angry, but with a sort of fear that Agron is very familiar with. It’s the type of fear that comes when watching someone you love suffer, the most brutal sort of suffering. 

“You can go in and see him now,” Pietros whispers, lips dry but eyes still streaming, “He’s very weak and he’s very tired so he may not make much sense, but he’s asking for you.”

“Is he-“ Agron can’t get the words out, mouth seeming to dry instantly at the thought. 

“I don’t know,” Pietros chokes a little, licking his lips slowly as if trying to find the words, “The ritual took a lot of him and then the fight. He wants to make you proud, Agron, to prove his worth, but he’s only just discovered who he is. The magic-“

“I have always been proud of him,” Agron bites his bottom lip, a dull ache rattling through him. 

“The whole time, he begged for you, Agron,” Pietros squeezes Agron’s fingers before letting go, migrating over to Duro’s open arms. “Go to him. It will help.”

“We’ll handle the elders and the funeral.” Spartacus encourages, gently nudging Agron forward. 

It’s been a long time since Agron has felt this desperate and this nervous. The tent is illuminated by the fire pit and a few stray candles. It casts a warm glow around, curtains pulled back to reveal the large, fur covered bed and its sole occupant. Nasir is laid upon his back, one handle curled by his cheek and the other clutching the edge of the blanket. They’ve taken his hair down from his braid, gentle curls against his gaunt face, eyes bruised and dark. 

Lowering himself, Agron perches on the edge of the bed, reaching out to gently brush his knuckles down Nasir’s cheek. He just needs to touch him, to know that Nasir is still there, still tangible and breathing. Agron cannot be calmed unless he knows that Nasir is alright. Slowly, as if waking from the deep, Nasir’s eyelashes flutter, a ghost of a smile stretching across his dry lips. 

“Is that my husband?” Nasir whispers faintly, fingers curling closer to his cheek.

“Yes,” Agron chokes back the tears that threaten him, knowing his cheeks are wet. “I am here now, my love.”

“You were gone so long and there is something I know we are meant to do,” Nasir licks his bottom lip, “but I can’t remember.”

“There is nothing, my love,” Agron gently pets along Nasir’s temples, unable to stop from touching him. “You only need to rest.”

“I am very tired,” Nasir agrees, nuzzling into the touch. Someone has dressed him in a plain tunic, the edges embroidered in a light emerald. It’s soft against Agron’s wrist, delicate and fine, a piece fitting for Nasir’s status. Yet there are no jewels upon him, no necklaces except for a thin gold chain with a tiny wolf charm at the end. The sight of the thing causes Agron to shudder in a breath, trying to quiet himself. 

Nasir blinks slowly, seeming to slowly recognize that Agron is staying on the edge of the bed, expression clouded. He reaches forward, hand trembling as he touches Agron’s jaw, capturing a stray tear along his knuckles. “Why do you cry, my love?”

“I nearly lost you today,” Agron glances down at the large bump of Nasir’s stomach under the blanket, “both of you.”

“I am alright. Just tired.” Nasir motions towards the empty space next to him, Agron’s side of the bed. “Lay with me.”

Slowly, Agron kicks his boots off, shedding his clothes quietly as he tosses them to the foot of the bed. Nasir watches him, eyes half lidded and warm as Agron slips into the bed, curling his body around Nasir’s until the length of Agron’s torso is pressed around Nasir’s back, his fingers brushing up and down the swell of his waist. 

“There is something I need to tell you,” Nasir’s voice is faint, heavy with exhaustion as he nuzzles back against Agron’s large chest. 

“Hush,” Agron laces his fingers into Nasir’s hair, massaging at the back of his head. It turns Nasir basically liquid, melting into the furs with a soft mew. “Rest and see your strength restored.”

“It is important,” Nasir turns his head back, glancing up at Agron, “I am not who you think I am.”

“You are tired, my love, and do not know the words you speak,” Agron presses a delicate kiss to the corner of Nasir’s mouth. “You are my king, my Nasir.”

“I do though,” Nasir leans back further, expression suddenly so clouded that it freezes Agron. “I am more than this body, this man. My people, our gods reincarnate every thousand years, and I am one of them. It is what gives me my powers. It is what gives our child theirs.”

“You are a god?” Agron raises an eyebrow. 

“As are you, in a way,” Nasir nods slowly, “I am Alkhaliq – the snake god that birthed the world. Neither man nor woman, but above. And you, you are-“

“Eins,” Agron whispers back, surprised at the awe in his own voice, “The name given to the wolf when he was changed into a man. It is sacred, a hidden name given to a reluctant but powerful alpha wolf. I took it upon myself with the Wolf Moon.”

“We are more than we thought and this,” Nasir curls his fingers through Agron’s, guiding it down to cup where the baby gently kicks against his side, “this baby is more too. It is why our powers are so strong, our magic tied together.”

“Nasir,” Agron kisses his husband’s mouth gently, pulling back with the barest of breaths between them, “we shall speak of this later. There are many things I fear we have yet to discuss, but now is not the time. Please, rest, and see your strength restored.”

“But there is still much to do-“ Nasir aims to push himself up, face lined in agony at the movement, but Agron wraps him back up in his arms, holding him still. 

“No,” Agron’s command is firm, “You are to rest, within my arms where I can keep you safe, and in the morning we will discuss all. Please my love, please.”

Nasir tries once more, mouth opening to protest, but all that comes out is a small snore. He is asleep before he can really form the words of what he wanted to say. The stress of the near delivery of their baby and the draining of the magic too much. Nasir is depleted. 

Behind him, Agron presses their bodies together until they are perfectly aligned, soothed by the constant and strong heartbeats against his palms – one Nasir’s and one the baby’s. 

\- - - 

Smoke billows high into the night sky, cutting off the splattering of stars and the moon's faint glow. The Alptra people gather around the pier, singing prayers and calling out, sending their old king to the heavens. The tears they shed are of relief, not of sadness. 

Hidden inside the darkness, a new shadow arrives, taking his place between the people. No one notices him, hood pulled up to hide his face from the light, eyes squinting from the brightness. It has been a long time since Ashur has stepped into the light, breathed the fresh air, and felt the taste of soon to be vengeance wet upon his tongue.


End file.
